Vows Made in Storms
by Protector of the Gray Fortress
Summary: The Shocking Affair of the Dutch Steamship Friesland. Another joint fic by KCS and Protector of the Gray Fortress
1. Becalmed

Chapter 1: "Becalmed"

Becalmed: Nautical term for the calm before a storm.

_"A policeman's lot is not a happy one._

_Ah, when constabulary duty's to be done, to be done,_

_A policeman's lot is not a happy one, hap-"_

"**Watson**!"

"What?"

"If you do not stop that infernal humming, I shall scream louder that any of those girls in that atrocious production's chorus line!"

Sherlock Holmes's voice appeared to be under an intense strained annoyance, but I could tell from his eyes that he was not really serious. About the possibility of his screaming, anyway.

I laughed at his exasperated expression and obediently stopped my humming. He breathed a sigh of relief, linking his arm through mine comfortably as we strolled along the gaslit streets along with the rest of the theatre-goers on this lovely May evening.

A warm breeze was blowing gently through the evening air, which was for once free from the smog and fog that normally characterized this city of ours, and the temperature was that of an almost too-perfect balmy spring evening.

At the time of which I speak, May of 1894, Sherlock Holmes had finally returned to life, shocking the world and myself with the startling knowledge that he was not dead as we had all thought, only a month previously. Since his return to life and the active investigative scene, I had sold my medical practice at his insistence and moved back into our old flat at Baker Street.

After the initial shock and awkwardness of learning to again live with each other had worn off, we fell back into place with tolerable easiness and by this time were fully as comfortable with each other as we had been in the old days.

Indeed, I mused as we strolled along the theatre district this lovely night, we were even more comfortable with each other. Something had happened during Holmes's absence to make him just slightly less an automaton as he had seemed to be often early in our association. I always knew the real Sherlock Holmes did exist somewhere underneath that cold, aloof façade, but his hidden self was rarely seen in those early days.

Since his return, I had noticed – to my great pleasure, I might add – that Holmes had slightly dropped that cold mask to the extent of relaxing more around me, at least; to all outward appearances he was still the alert, aloof investigator, but occasionally, like tonight for instance, Holmes allowed himself to liberate that tense appearance and soften that cold exterior somewhat when in my company.

I was extraordinarily pleased, and touched deeply, by his gesture of this evening; for I knew how much he despised Gilbert and Sullivan, preferring the classics like Wagner and Shakespeare to the more popular entertainment of our day.

I had mentioned once, a few weeks after my return to Baker Street, that I should like to see the newest operetta, the _Pirates of Penzance_, saying the fact merely as a passing conversation piece at the breakfast table one morning.

And it was to my utter astonishment, and great delight, that Holmes had surprised me just this morning with stuffing two box tickets to the performance into the journal in which I had been writing up our last case, the scandalous affair of the ex-president Murillo and those dreadfully dangerous documents of his.

I will never forget the look on his face when I whirled round in my chair, holding the envelope in my hand, and staring at him with amazement.

I had only rarely seen that look before, like that of a parent watching a child open up a Christmas gift, the pleasure of seeing the appreciation on the little one's face far outweighing the expense of the gift. He had laughed at my incredulous expression and then vanished without a word into his bedroom, leaving me staring after him.

Yes, indeed, he had changed a good deal, I thought as we walked along, making our way out of the entertainment district of London and turning our steps in the direction of Baker Street.

Holmes was in the middle of some rather personal deduction about the young couple in front of us, who were obviously enjoying each other's presence a little more than most Victorian young people did in public at that time in history, and I could not help but laugh as I remembered how much I had indeed missed moments like this over the last three years.

Holmes's return had filled in that gap in my heart and mind that had left me more introspective and withdrawn than I had ever been in my life; and tonight I realized that I was, for the first time in a long time, absolutely and perfectly happy.

After a few minutes, we fell into a comfortable silence as we walked, the gaslights flickering warmly around us and the balmy breeze setting the bunting on the houses we passed fluttering gently in the evening wind.

"Holmes?" I asked at last.

"Yes, my dear fellow?"

"Thank you for going with me tonight."

Hid thin lips curved upward in a smile.

"I know the thing is not really your style –"

He laughed aloud at that colossal understatement.

"No, perhaps not," he chuckled, "but honestly, my dear fellow, I was more than glad to go – I have sorely missed these evening rambles of ours over the last three years, you know."

"We could have just gone for a walk instead of a comic operetta, Holmes," I said, watching him for his reaction and loving every minute of this discussion.

"But you wanted to see it," he protested, looking at me out of the corner of his eye – I was baiting him, and he knew it. He was merely playing along with me.

And he was not going to give me the satisfaction of what I wanted to hear, not just yet anyway.

"Yes, but still –"

"It gave me a chance to escape from Mrs. Hudson's infernal fussing," he interrupted me, "one month back in the rooms, and the woman thinks she needs to replace the drapes. Honestly!"

I laughed.

"Also, it gave me a chance to puzzle over than Charleston murder case, that one that's been in the _Times_ every day for the past week," he went on, glancing slyly at me, "you remember, the one where the husband was accused of poisoning –"

_"A policeman's lot is not a happy one..._" I began mischievously humming that accursed tune again, eyeing my companion for the explosion I knew would follow.

He moaned dismally, and I snickered at his immaturely pouting face.

"I am _so_ going to regret this for the rest of the week, am I not?" he said in mock despair.

"Do you suppose we can go see the _Mikado_ next, Holmes?" I asked innocently.

I was forced to dodge a not-so-playful thin elbow as Holmes expressed his feelings very eloquently without words.

Then we both laughed, as a group of young people were watching us from a doorway, pointing and laughing.

"Hmph," Holmes muttered, "what are they staring at?"

"Probably the local dead celebrity," I said with a grin. "Maybe they have not heard that you are alive?"

He snorted derisively.

"Probably more likely they are wondering what those two old men are doing walking all the way from the theatre district instead of ordering a cab," he replied.

"Old men? I like that!" I said indignantly.

Holmes threw back his head and laughed aloud, the sound filling me with a happiness of my own – I had forgotten how much fun we could have if Holmes would simply forget that he was supposed to be a cool, competent detective, a lone wolf in the field of criminal justice, and would simply let himself be human once in a while.

Such moments had been rare before his so-called death, and I was more than thrilled at the fact that they were more frequent now.

"Oh, my dear Watson," he gasped at last, still chortling at my disgruntled expression (which was really put-on; I was nowhere near irritated), "I truly have missed this, if you can believe such a sentiment from a calculating machine such as I!"

I laughed and tightened my grip on his arm, returning the sly look he gave me.

"Hmm. First you go with me to the _Pirates of Penzance_, and now you tell me that you are actually _glad _to be in my company? Are you feeling quite well, old chap?" I put so much false medical concern into my voice that Holmes nearly lost his composure again with his snickering.

I am sure the people we passed thought us to be entirely mad, but we did not care in the least, not on an evening like this one. I was actually sorry to see Baker Street up ahead of us as we strolled along Oxford.

Holmes stopped to look in a shop window, indicating a new microscope he had his eye on and then launching into a detailed discussion about its perks right there outside the closed shop window, forcing passers-by to detour around us. I was hard put not to smile at his mood swings, for they were every bit as variable as I had remembered.

He was jabbing a bony finger at the glass of the window, pointing out some feature on the instrument, when one of our young street urchins came dashing past us on the sidewalk, nearly bowling me over right into Holmes.

The lad hastily spun on his heel when he saw us and latched onto Holmes with a war-whoop of triumph.

"Mr. 'Olmes! We done 'eard in th' papers yew weren't dead, after all!" the boy shouted, loudly enough that several people stopped to stare at us.

I hid a smile behind a cough, for Holmes looked entirely comical with this lad hanging off his full dress suit, helplessly looking at me over the boy's head as if to ask what he was supposed to do.

I indicated his pocketbook. Worked every time.

"Yes, well, Charlie, how are you and all the Irregulars?" Holmes said, trying to pry the boy's grubby arms off his waistcoat.

"Oi, we're fine, Mr. 'Olmes. Hullo, Doctor!" the boy said as Holmes disentangled himself finally.

"Hello, my boy," I said, smiling.

Holmes fumbled in his pocket and handed the lad a half-crown – the only change either of us had on us (another reason we had walked instead of taking a cab).

"Blimey!" the boy's eyes got as large as saucers.

"Now scarper, lad. I shall see you again sometime soon," Holmes directed the boy, who nodded and bounced off down the street, whooping with joy at his new-found wealth.

I dissolved into a soft peal of laughter at Holmes's exasperation as he tried unsuccessfully to straighten his rumpled waistcoat and jacket.

My friend sent me a scathing glare, and I hastily dropped a bland mask over my features as he was so fond of doing, looking innocently at him.

He laughed again, giving up on the clothing, and we continued the last remaining blocks to Baker Street in a companionable silence, just enjoying the evening.

We turned the corner onto Baker Street, and I out of old habit looked up at the sitting room, as I had done every time I found myself on this street in the last three years. But instead of seeing a white shade, I perceived a shadow on the blind, a tall male shadow.

"Looks like a client," I said to my comrade, who was also looking at the shadow.

"Such a stunning observation, Doctor," Holmes said, "you improve all the time."

I glared at him, only half in jest. "Well, go on, dazzle me then," I retorted.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Tell me what long spiel of deductions you can make from his shadow," I said.

"Well, it is a man," Holmes began.

"I rather believe I could have told _you_ that obvious fact," I interjected as I fumbled for my key.

Holmes snickered meaningfully.

"Yes, I rather believe that is your department," he replied, obviously enjoying seeing my face flush under his teasing.

"Really, Holmes!" I hid my red face by opening the door and stepping ahead of him into the hall.

Behind me I heard his quiet laughter as he shut the door, hanging his top hat beside mine on the hall peg. He picked up a visiting card from the table.

"_Midshipman William Lachlan, Portsmouth, England,_" Holmes read.

I whistled. "That is rather a mouthful."

"Now, Watson, that is not a very kind action, to make fun of a fellow's odd name," Holmes said chidingly as we started upstairs.

"Yes, I can imagine you found _yourself_ on the receiving end of that unkind action at some point in your life, Holmes," I said, my face deadpan but wanting very much to laugh.

His jaw dropped as my sharp barbed teasing hit directly home, and he had barely controlled his laughter at my statement by the time we reached the sitting room door.

"I never get your limits, Watson," he muttered, his hand on the knob, and I grinned.

"Well, on to your third case since your return?"

"After you, my dear fellow."


	2. Know the Ropes

Chapter 2: "Know the Ropes"

Know the Ropes: Nautical term for being acquainted with the method of a task.

_**Watson:**_

The sitting room was dim, the gas only half on, but Mrs. Hudson had lit a cozy fire and it made up the difference by shedding a comfortable glow throughout the room.

I entered before Holmes rather uneasily, for I suddenly felt that something was missing and it took me a moment to realize what.

When a client of Holmes's enters our flat on Baker Street, they are more than often filled with a nervous energy; they pace, fidget, sometimes mutter to themselves, and generally broadcast that feeling of unease into the rest of the room - much as the fire was casting its heat now.

I sensed no such unease when I entered the room; indeed, it was just as peaceful and comfortable as ever, as though there were no client present.

But across the room the man Lachlan stood still near the window, his hands deep in his pockets, his eyes fixed on the shelf of books above my desk.

He was tall and broad shouldered, a few inches above my own height and no more than two below that of Holmes. At the sound of our entrance he looked round and then turned to face us, and I had to admit that he cut a rather impressive figure; but I sensed no menace from him, and again felt that absence of unease. He was singly the most reassuring person I had ever met, and he fit as quietly and easily into his surroundings as a stone on a country lane.

Holmes brushed past me, his jovial mood forgotten in the face of yet another client and yet another case. I was somewhat sad that this period of calm intimacy had been interrupted so soon, but I could not begrudge Holmes his cases, and I myself was rather excited at the prospect. There was, and still is, no finer thing than to accompany Sherlock Holmes on one of his adventures.

Adopting his brusque and business-like manner as he had of old, Holmes approached Lachlan, his hand outstretched.

"Mr. Lachlan…I am Sherlock Holmes."

Lachlan smiled and grasped the detective's hand firmly. "Mr. Holmes, I have heard a great deal of you."

His voice was almost as quiet as his manner, though it was gruff and low.

"Then you no doubt have heard of my associate Dr. Watson." Holmes said, stepping aside so that I could approach.

The smile warmed further. "I have indeed, Doctor, in fact I could argue that it is only because of you that I have heard of Mr. Holmes."

I felt my face flush slightly at the compliment toward my writings and I shook his hand, which was rough and calloused…a workman's hand.

"Won't you sit down?" Holmes gestured to one of the chairs by the fire.

Lachlan sat murmuring his thanks and leaned forward in his chair, his hands clasped before him, and I took the moment to study him.

He was, as I have said, tall and broad, it was difficult to tell beneath the black peacoat he wore but from the way he had moved and by the strength he had shown when shaking my hand it was obvious he was very fit and muscled. His hair was short and fair, a sandy shade that almost hid the few gray steaks present in his locks.

The man wore a beard and moustache as well, trimmed and just hugging his jaw. His face was tanned and weathered as a seaman's always was, the bones of his face were fine with a long nose and high cheekbones and he would have been considered handsome by a good many ladies. His eyes were blue, clean and clear as the sky at sea.

Holmes seated himself in the chair opposite our interesting guest and leaned back, crossing one long leg over the other and steepling his fingers together.

"Now, Mr. Lachlan, perhaps you would care to tell us why you are here. I deal with a great many people but I must admit that I do not often deal with seamen, and never before with a midshipman."

Lachlan's eyebrows rose at that and he smiled wryly. "You say that as if it is some grand thing, Mr. Holmes, but midshipman is not even a proper officer's rank."

"Nevertheless it is obvious that you are well acquainted with the craft, and had you the ambition or rather the luck you would have been promoted long ago."

"Humor me, Mr. Holmes, for I have long wanted to see your parlor tricks, how can ye tell that?"

Now Holmes smiled, always flattered by a chance to show off his art.

"Your complexion and sea legs tell me that you have been at sea for a great deal of time, years not months, the roots of your hair betray the fact that it was at one time darker and was long ago bleached in the sun and has remained that way ever since."

"Sea legs?" I asked in puzzlement.

Holmes glanced at me, irritated at the interruption, but explained. "It is a different matter to walk on the deck of a ship rather than land, Watson."

I _had_ been aware of that fact, but I kept quiet.

"And, when one has spent a great deal of time aboard such vessels, one develops a permanent such manner of movement, particularly the seafaring man," he went on.

"The calluses on your hands indicate that you do a deal of manual labor, but also present are the prints to indicate that you frequently use a pen in writing and other delicate instruments typical of navigation and mathematics. You were examining Watson's medical journals when we came in and only a learned man would find those particular works to be of much interest. Your carriage is quiet but confident…you can and often do lead men but are not accustomed to it. You are a man of hidden talents, Mr. Lachlan, and should have been promoted long ago - .so I must assume that you either have no ambition in the matter or fell upon some misfortune that prevented it."

The admiration was clear in Lachlan's eyes and he looked at me. "Your stories do not , Dr. Watson. You are correct in every particular, Mr. Holmes…now perhaps you would like some information in return."

Holmes motioned with his hand for the seaman to continue, his eyes already closed.

Lachlan frowned at Holmes's odd manner but cleared his throat to begin. I sat on the sofa and drew a notebook quickly from my pocket.

"I have been at sea for most of my life, 22 years in fact, for I left home when I was sixteen and since then have been working my way from ship to ship and crew to crew…several years ago I had a connection in a Dutch shipping company and became a crew member of the steamship, _Beschermer_; that is where I rose to the rank of Midshipman. The _Beschermer_ was a cargo ship, and our path took us from the Netherlands to Indonesia, where we sold and traded our goods for a new cargo."

"What line was this?" I asked.

"The Lansing line." Lachlan answered, "They even have several factories that manufacture the ships."

"And some event occurred while you were on this _Beschermer_ that you wish to consult me about?" Holmes prompted.

"Actually, Mr. Holmes, it is what happened after I left that ship that prompts me to seek your help."

Holmes frowned and opened his eyes to look at our client but said nothing, merely waiting.

"I left her only a year and a half ago, and no sooner was I off the thing than she went down off the coast of one of the little Indonesian islands, all hands aboard with her. No one has seen her or heard word of her, so that was given as the only explanation as to her fate."

Holmes sprang from his chair, rather irritated, and paced to the fireplace to pack his pipe. I could read the disappointment in his face and the lightness in my heart promptly left it. The sailor's tale was sad, true, but it was not an unusual or even a mysterious occurrence for a ship to vanish at sea.

Holmes said as much and Lachlan looked at him more sharply than he had before.

"If you would give me the courtesy to allow me to finish, Mr. Holmes, then you would see there is more to my story then the simple sinking of a ship."

He had our attention now.

Holmes turned back to him, leaning on the fireplace, his pipe between his lips.

"Pray continue, then."

Lachlan nodded his thanks and went on.

"For the past two months I have been taking a little rest from the sea, and have employed myself as a dockworker unloading cargo and shipments in Portsmouth. Yesterday I was assigned to unload a ship that had just returned from Indonesia..."

He broke off here and for the first time since we had entered the room he hesitated.

Holmes impatiently glanced at me and I gave him a stern look that clearly indicated my feelings. With a slight sigh Holmes sat in his chair again and prompted quietly and patiently.

"How are the two incidents related, Mr. Lachlan? Other than the fact that ships were present in both."

"That's just it, Mr. Holmes, the plurality isn't needed…when I was unloading the ship I was struck by a strange familiarity that I could not shake, and when most of the cargo was unloaded I lingered in the hold on a whim. On every ship I travel on, I leave behind me a small mark…a scratch in the hold. It is a custom of mine and does not mean anything to anyone else, but I have never failed to mark one of my ships."

Holmes was leaning forward now in the attitude of an eager hound, his eyes alight.

Lachlan met his gaze without flinching at the intent glare and spoke.

"My mark was present in the hold Mr. Holmes - and that ship that I unloaded was none other than the _Beschermer_ with a new coat of paint and a new name."

Holmes leapt to his feet again, so abruptly this time that Lachlan jerked back in surprise, watching the detective pace back and forth.

"You recognized the ship after you realized this?"

"Aye, I know the cut of the jib of every ship I have ever sailed on…as well as the back of my own hand. A few layers of paint cannot change that."

"Were any of the former crew present...did you happen to notice any other irregularities?"

"None."

"Have you informed anyone else of this?"

"I informed the Lansing line…and was politely told that it was none of my business, Mr. Holmes." He said this with a little bitterness.

"Which line does this new ship belong too?"

"A rival line, and if you'd allow me…"

Lachlan reached into his peacoat and drew out a grubby piece of paper scribbled on with a pencil.

Holmes took it from him, and unfolded it.

"Those are the names and the rough facts of three ships that I have since found in the harbors of Portsmouth, all of which I have sailed on before…and all of which were supposed to have perished en route to Indonesia in the last six or seven years. Every one of them belongs to one of three shipping lines, rival to the Lansing."

Holmes scanned the document and then passed it to me.

I struggled to read the shipman's sprawling hand and was able to make out the names of three ships, the _Devenpeck_, the _Halse_, and the _Scranton_, each followed by a brief history and the name of the line which now owned them. In every case the ship had gone down with all hands, vanishing without a word, and not even a scrap of debris had been found to attest to their fate.

"All three belonged to the Lansing line, and since the fools in administration seem not to care whether their ships and their men are intentionally harmed I have brought the matter to you."

"You have no personal interest in it?"

Lachlan shook his head and sighed running a hand through his already mussed hair.

"That is a delicate matter, Mr. Holmes…I admit I cannot submit this case in the role of client as I am not a wealthy man and would have trouble paying out any fees you could ask for. But the Doctor's stories indicate you enjoy a challenge, and if you solved this mystery I am certain that the Lansing line would reward you sufficiently."

Holmes's thin lips twitched, "I see you are indeed a fan of Watson's stories. Yes, the case is of interest to me, and is in itself reward enough. But that is not what I meant by the question…why should you bring this to my attention at all?"

Lachlan raised his brows again, looking a little surprised at the question.

"Because I am an honest man, Mr. Holmes," he said simply, "I cannot stand by and see crime done even if it does not affect me personally. This would be a cruel world if we were only worried about our own gain. And…I had not a few friends on the _Beschemer_…it would be an insult twice-over if I did nothing to avenge their deaths."

Holmes let out his odd barking laugh and his eyes sparked as he looked at Lachlan with something akin to respect.

"That alone is reason enough for me to take the case, Mr. Lachlan. The cause of an honest man is always worth aiding. I really must thank you for providing me with a pretty little problem."

Lachlan returned the smile and nodded, climbing to his feet.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes. If you have no further need of me I have some business that I had better be getting back to."

"Do you have an address in Portsmouth where you can be reached? Your memory may yet be of service to me."

"That's fine. I'm here in London for a few days, s'matter of fact, an inn down by the docks, Haddock by name. If you don't find me there then a question set to a seaman should reach me right enough."

Holmes murmured his thanks and shook Lachlan's hand a second time, this time more warmly than before.

"It has been a pleasure meeting you at last, Mr. Holmes…and you, Doctor." He shook my hand.

"Likewise, sir," I said, returning the gesture, and Holmes moved to show him to the door.

William Lachlan nodded to us both once more and then left the room…his feet pounding firmly on the seventeen steps.

The moment the door was closed Holmes turned away from it, rubbing his hands eagerly together, his face alight.

"What a night Watson, such a mystery! And such a man! You are both of a dying breed, Doctor, the honest idealist. Quite sharp too - it is not often that a client possess those qualities which I actually find useful. He has a knack for observation, his talents told him what that ship was long before he found the mark. It is a shame that he is wasted on such menial labor; his employers abuse their own fortunes by not promoting him. "

I smiled, watching as Holmes coaxed his pipe into life again and seated himself before the fire with a satisfied sigh.

"I liked him." I remarked, leaning out the open window to watch as his figure disappeared round a corner, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his peacoat once again.

Holmes turned his head and smiled.

"That is another point in his favor, Watson. I am rather inclined to hope that we see him again, for he could be quite useful in this case."

I am amused when I look back on Holmes's words now, for not only were we to see William Lachlan again but he would become invaluable, and little did we know then just how deep and treacherous a puzzle he had led us to.


	3. All at Sea

Chapter 3:"All at Sea"

All at Sea: Nautical term for a state of confusion and disorder.

_**Watson:**_

I slept well that night, the combination of such a wonderful evening at the operetta and then the coming home to a new case putting me in an admirably pleasant frame of mind, and I slept straight through the night, waking to a glorious burst of golden sunshine peeking in through the blinds of my window.

It was promising to be a very lovely day, and I was in a particularly cheerful mood as I dressed, the songs from that operetta continuing to go through my mind as I readied myself for the day.

I was still humming as I fairly bounced down the stairs to the sitting room – I could smell coffee and knew that Holmes must already be up. Of course he was; he had a new case, only the third since his return!

"Good morning, Holmes," I cried, opening the door to the sitting room with a bright smile, "it is going to be a – oh dear heavens!"

My jaw dropped as I saw the tornado that had struck our sitting room overnight. Holmes was standing in the middle of the room by the table, surrounded by a white paper carpet that blanketed the floor in every direction.

Why he felt the need to toss about every document and paper we owned in searching for the always elusive one he wanted was a mystery I for one would never be able to solve.

"Holmes, what in heaven's name!" I gasped, taking a long jump over a strewn pile of scrapbooks that blocked my path for three feet.

He was staring fixedly at a long map of the eastern hemisphere that he had fixed to the wall with – I winced at the thought of what Mrs. Hudson would say – his pocketknife and several sharp tacks, completely ignoring me.

I tripped over a stack of books – why had he thrown them on the floor instead of placing them on the desks? – and nearly made a crash landing on the couch, only to see that it too was covered with papers. I barely kept my balance and turned to look at what else he had destroyed during the night.

Two other maps, one of the Indonesian islands and one obviously a nautical chart of wind and current patterns, were affixed – I did not wish to know how – to my desk and to the side of the file cabinet.

Holmes was scrutinizing the one in front of him, carefully and meticulously tracing a path on it in pencil and then going back over it with a large red felt pen.

"What the devil are you doing, Holmes!" I asked at last, not believing the mess one man could have made in one night.

"Not now, Watson," he said impatiently, "I am engaged at the moment!"

"So I see," I replied tiredly, shoving aside a stack of files – _1882_? What had he been doing going through twelve-year-old case records?

Even as I bent to pick up a leather portfolio that was dangerously close to the fireplace, Holmes suddenly stabbed the map rather viciously with a large colored stick-pin and turned to a sheaf of papers that had somehow made their way to comparative safety on the sideboard.

I heard a violent curse as he began to riffle through the stack at such a speed I was sure he would tear the pages, and when I voiced a mild protest as he flung the discarded ones over his shoulder instead of restacking them, I was met only with a growl.

I dodged a flying envelope, catching it and a large manila folder before they went into the grate, and somehow managed to make Holmes's desk by the window before being sliced to ribbons by the documents sailing through the air.

"Holmes, what in heaven's name are you searching for?" I asked, pouring myself a cup of coffee.

There was a very loud crash behind me, and I closed my eyes, praying for patience. Then, and only then, did I turn round.

"Oh, Holmes…" I moaned, seeing that he had torn down the map from my desk, taking several dictionaries and journals with him to the floor.

I poured milk into my coffee and watched as he again ignored me, sitting cross-legged on the floor with the map across his knees and two papers in his hand, copying notes from the documents onto the Indonesian map, his thin face furrowed with intense concentration.

There was a knock on the door, and we both started rather guiltily and looked at each other.

"Um, Watson?"

"I am already on it, Holmes," I said hastily, jumping over the closest pile of files, trying to get to the door before our landlady opened it and saw what Holmes had done to the sitting room.

"Thank you!" my companion called after me as I tripped over those confounded scrapbooks, frantically groping for the doorknob. Even Sherlock Holmes was not over-eager to push his luck with our good landlady.

But the estimable woman opened the door just as I reached it, nearly hitting me in the face.

"Oh, Doctor! I am sorry!"

"It – it's quite all right, Mrs. Hudson," I gasped, rubbing my head and hastily taking the breakfast tray from her hands. I endeavored to move so that I was blocking her from seeing the room's condition.

"Will you and Mr. Holmes be wanting anything else just now, Doctor?" she asked, peering past me suspiciously.

There was a crash of breaking china behind us in the room, and the good woman's eyes grew round as she sent me a pointed look.

"Do you really think I can stop it, Mrs. Hudson?" I asked meaningfully as Holmes erupted into a bout of colorful swearing amidst another smaller crash.

She relinquished the tray to me with surprising alacrity. "Just see that he doesn't destroy the new curtains, Doctor, if you please," the woman warned me sternly, "or tomorrow there will _be_ no breakfast!"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson," I replied meekly, shutting the door hastily after she had regally swept back to the stairs.

"Hah! There you are!" Holmes cried with a dry laugh, pouncing like a cat on his largest magnifying lens, which had either fallen or been thrown halfway across the room to land under his chemical table.

I shook my head and then tackled the problem of where I was going to eat breakfast, for the table, my desk, the chemical table, the chairs, and the couch were all buried under a blizzard of paperwork.

With my legs I shuffled a tiny path through the debris and went back to Holmes's desk, where the coffee pot stood, and after a bit of debate and realizing there was nowhere else to go, hopped up and sat upon it, balancing the breakfast tray upon my knees.

"Eggs, Holmes?" I asked serenely, as if sitting on his desk were the most normal thing in the world – indeed, in Baker Street, I doubted if the word 'normal' could _ever_ describe our activities.

Holmes was inspecting another map, tapping his pen thoughtfully against his lower lip. Then he began to rummage through yet another stack of papers from the floor.

I lifted up my feet as he came close to smacking his head into my shoe.

"Toast, Holmes?"

He threw a leather-bound volume across the room, where it slammed into the wall with a thud. I cringed, hoping Mrs. Hudson could not hear.

"Coffee, Holmes?"

"I cannot for the life of me figure it out, Watson," he muttered.

"The map, or breakfast?"

He started out of his reverie and glanced at me, perched on his desk, trying to balance a coffee cup in one hand and a slice of toast in the other. For a moment Holmes just stared at me, and then he began to laugh out loud.

"Watson, what _are_ you doing?"

"Eating breakfast," I stated the obvious, "won't you have some?"

"Why are you sitting on my desk?" he asked, laughing once again at my odd position.

"Probably because every other article of furniture in here has been destroyed in your search for whatever it was you were looking for," I replied, cautiously setting down the cup and reaching for the kippers.

But I leaned too far forward and the tray started to slip. I tried to grab it with a startled yelp as it slid off my knees, and Holmes dove for the thing before it tipped completely off my legs, catching the edge of it and bringing it upright once more.

For a moment we both looked at each other in silence, and then we burst into a joint fit of laughter at the absurdity of the situation.

Holmes was still laughing a moment later as he shoved a load of papers off one half of the table and hopped up across from me. I grinned and handed him a cup of coffee and a plate.

"This is ridiculous," he muttered, stirring sugar into his coffee.

"What exactly were you trying to accomplish here, Holmes?" I asked, holding out the plate of toast.

"First, I was charting the disappearing ships' courses, for one thing, and marking where they were reported to have been lost with all hands. As Lachlan said, all three of the ones he mentioned disappeared off the Indonesian islands," my companion replied, crunching down on his toast.

"And those are just the three that he knows of personally," I added, "who knows how many more are being taken the same way and re-sold to shipping lines."

"The oddest part of the business is two-fold," Holmes went on, sipping his coffee, "because I cannot for the life of me see any motive for the actions. These three ships are from three different rivaling lines. If they were all from the same line, that would be highly suspicious of sabotage from a rival or else simple piracy of rival ships."

"But three different lines – that does not make any sense," I agreed, passing him the kippers.

Holmes speared one and tossed it onto his plate, then tapped the fork thoughtfully against his thin lips.

"You said it was two-fold, Holmes?"

"Yes, Watson. The other odd issue is that, although these three steamships were freighters, there have been no less than three dozen ships that supposedly disappeared in that same vicinity in the last five years, and many of those were passenger vessels."

"But ships go down on a fairly regular basis," I protested, balancing the tray while I poured myself more coffee.

"Yes, but not all from the same line," Holmes said, pointing his fork at me for emphasis.

I stopped, staring at him over the rim of my cup.

"They're all from the Langsing line?"

"Nearly all of them. Langsing is a cargo shipping line but they also own many passenger vessels that make voyages to India, Indonesia, and Australia," said he, absently finishing off his breakfast.

"Then that is rather odd," I agreed, "were you up all night figuring all this out, Holmes?"

"No, no, I was just up early, old chap," he said, hopping off the table and leaving the dishes upon it, "but now we must be getting on."

"On where?" I asked, sliding off the desk, holding the tray aloft so as not to spill anything.

"I need to find Lachlan again," my friend replied, shrugging out of his dressing gown on his way to his bedroom. He tripped over a stack of books, sending them sliding all over the floor, and growled something unintelligible before vanishing into his bedroom.

"Find him for what?" I called, trying to clear a path to the door.

"I need more information about the shipping lines, the boats, and also I need to find some other contacts from sailors that might recognize ships in port," Holmes bellowed back.

"Shall we be going to Portsmouth afterwards?" I called, stacking up a large sheaf of papers and placing them on my desk.

"I have no idea," he replied, coming back into the sitting room, tripping over the same stack of books he had on his way out, kicking one of them impatiently away to crash into the leg of the couch.

I stuffed my journal into my pocket and then grabbed my black medical case – I rarely left the flat without it, knowing Sherlock Holmes, and never if there were a chance that we would not be returning for several hours. Just as a precaution, I pulled my revolver from the desk and put it into the bag, for I was taking no chances on anything happening.

Holmes snatched his cigarette case and matches from the mantel, shoved them and his lens into his pockets, and then bulldozed a path from the fireplace to the door, sending clutter scooting across the floor to every remote part of the room.

I sighed, thinking of the mess I in all probability would be the one to clean up later upon our return, and followed him out the door.

I tried to shut the sitting room door behind me, and when it stuck on one of Holmes's precious scrapbooks, I glanced ahead of me to see that he was already out of sight down the stairs; then I booted it away from the door and closed it forcefully, wishing sometimes that Holmes were as neat and precise in his filing as he was in his solving of cases.

But the game was afoot, and I was eager to leave the mess behind and participate in it – I hurried down the stairs to catch up with my friend.


	4. Made in Storms

Chapter 4:"Made in Storms"

"Vows made in storms are not forgotten in port."

_**Watson:**_

The overpowering scent of wet wood and oil assailed my nose as I alighted from the cab after Holmes. My friend had halted in his tracks and was filling his lungs, his head back.

"Marvelous, is it not, Watson?"

I took a step and felt my shoe collide with a soft substance that gave off an unpleasant stench.

"Yes, quite. What was the name of the inn Lachlan was staying at again?"

"The Haddock."

"That's appropriate."

Holmes gave me a wry smile. "You look at everything with a writer's eyes Watson, which is why you will never fully possess the faculties required of a detective."

I was not certain of how to take this remark but Holmes obviously thought nothing of it for he took hold of my arm and led me forward through the thin but bustling crowd of the London Dockyards.

On one side was the Thames, dotted with ships at anchor, and on the other was a row of closely packed and very tall, narrow buildings built of fading brick and wood with peeling paint. Everywhere one looked there was someone at task, loading crates, coiling rope, or simply making their way along as we were.

It was, in a sense, refreshing, and I could see how Holmes could be attracted to such activity and liveliness.

He seemed to know his way rather well and he led us a straight course to a rather lonely looking little building that was obviously old but well made.

"The Haddock…I must admit Watson, that I have never actually been inside though I have heard good report of it."

"Good report from whom?" I asked as he took hold of the tarnished iron handle and pushed the aged door inward.

A different set of smells met us, mostly a rather musty odor that reminded one of old, wet books and stews…as well as beer. Cutting through that odor was the unmistakable smell of freshly baked or baking bread.

The small front room bore several round tables, a slumping fireplace at one end, and the inevitable bar at the other. It appeared to be empty.

"No one here?" I guessed as I closed the door behind us.

"Nonsense, Watson…they wouldn't leave an oven lit if it were unoccupied."

And a moment later Holmes was proved correct as a young woman, wearing a gray dress and an apron dusted with flour emerged from the back carrying a stack of plates.

"Good day, Madam," Holmes said, removing his hat. "I am in search of one of your patrons."

She set down the stack and smiled politely though it was evident that we were interrupting her work, brushing a wheat-colored lock back from her face. I removed my hat as well.

"An' 'oo would that be, sir?"

"A Mr. Lachlan, is he in his room?"

She shook her head, still smiling. "I'm sorry sir…'e left 'bout four hours ago."

"Could you tell us where he went?" I asked.

"I believe 'e's spent the last few days at one of the nearer Cartographers, 'Arry's 'is name."

Holmes pounced upon this latest piece of information. "And where is this establishment?"

"I'm sorry sir, I can't rightly say…but if you ask someone outside they should be able to direct you."

"Thank you," Holmes said, recapping his hat and turning abruptly to leave again. After a few words of thanks of my own I followed, having to trot to catch up with him again.

The moment I had he gave a short laugh that was so characteristic of him.

"Cartographers. What did I say, Watson, a man of hidden talents, clearly. That fellow over there looks as though he can give competent instructions."

He could and he did and we made our way to the small shop which stood not three streets away…only to discover that Lachlan had already left.

The exasperation on Holmes's face was in effect priceless, and I struggled to retain my laughter while he addressed the proprietor of the shop.

"He's gone."

"Yes, sir."

"Well _where_ has he gone?"

"Why, down to the ring sir, he's been doing some work for me for a few days now. Still plans to in the future…but he's taken off for the day to get some sport in."

Holmes' lips twitched in their own amusement and he left the shop with me at his heels and once the door burst behind us he burst into a weary laughter.

"Oh, Watson, I could swear that this man is purposefully leading us on a wild goose chase for nothing more than his own amusement."

"You know where this place is then?"

My friend smiled and clapped me on the shoulder "I do Watson, very well in fact. Come on, old fellow - this next part should amuse you."

Holmes led me quickly through the crowd, up a few streets and down two…until I caught the sight of a small crowd, gathered in an open space between the buildings. An audible noise rose from them.

"Holmes, what is this?" I asked suspiciously, for my friend was obviously eager.

He shot me a smile and pulled me forward into the crowd, weaving his way through it until the reason for it came into view.

When the shopkeeper had said 'ring' and 'sport' he had been speaking literally, for there in the center a small square was marked with ropes and two men circled each other inside it. Lachlan among his other talents…was a boxer.

Prize-fighting, or Fisticuffs as it was called, was a boxing match without gloves…which was understandable because not every man could afford the equipment for the more sophisticated form of boxing. For this reason it often tended to be bloodier and more dangerous.

Both Lachlan and his opponent stood in the center of the ring, stripped to the waist, barefoot, and were bobbing and weaving skillfully while trying to land blows on the other.

The crowd called advice and cheers and in some cases jeers.

"Come on, Gery!"

"That's half a sovereign I've got on you lad! Don't let 'im at ya!"

The fighters seemingly took no notice but continued to circle; both were grinning and it was evident that the match was a friendly one, fought more for skill than to actually take down the other man.

For several moments we watched while they fought. I had both participated in and seen boxing before but I was more partial to such sports as fishing and horse-racing and rugby - boxing was Holmes' forte.

I had seen Holmes box many times and had fenced with him often in the past….but only once had I been foolish enough to take him in a boxing match early on in our acquaintance.

I glanced at him now, his hands gripped in fists, his eyes alight, as they flickered and darted, watching the fight, and I could not help but wonder how long it had been since he had been in a ring.

An uproar drew my attention back to the ring and I looked in time to see Lachlan deliver a hook that had 'Gery' back against the ropes…someone called an end to the round and somewhat bruised the opponents walked to the edge of the ring, arms on each other's shoulders, speaking quietly.

"Come on, Watson." Holmes said, surging forward through the crowd. I hurried to keep up.

We reached the ring just as Lachlan was about to leave it, and spotting us, he stopped and leaned on the ropes…the surprise and pleasure at our appearance evident on his face.

"Mr. Holmes, Doctor, it is a surprise to see _you_ here."

"Not as much a surprise for us I will admit," Holmes said. "I failed to take note last night of the state of your ears, my friend. Oddly thinned and flattened as is common for boxers. You did remarkably well in that last fight."

Lachlan smiled and nodded his thanks. "Aye, you do know a little of boxing don't you? I read from the Doctor's stories you even tried your hand at it once or twice."

I had mentioned Holmes' boxing skills in the 'Study in Scarlet', but I had made it clear in that tale that Holmes was an excellent boxer. Lachlan was deliberately baiting him…not that he needed any encouragement.

I put a light hand on Holmes' shoulder as a sudden foreboding seized me.

"It has been a while. A few years in fact."

Lachlan nodded an indulgent smile on his face. "Aye one gets soft after a while."

Holmes raised his eyebrows in 'offense' though his eyes shone with the same mischievous light as Lachlan's.

"Not as soft as all that, I dare say."

"Holmes," I cautioned…for it had been three years.

"Well, shall we find out?" Lachlan said, "One round and then I could have time to help you with whatever it is you're needing. "

"Certainly, Mr. Lachlan." Holmes said, beginning to remove his coat and jacket. "Though I must warn you I have blackened many an eye."

"Holmes!" I protested again, though I could not suppress the amusement from my voice.

"Hold these for me, would you Watson?" he said, pulling off his cravat, vest, and shirt as well, and handing the clothes to me.

I sighed and took them, watching as he and Lachlan entered the ring and strode to the center. Then someone called the beginning of the round and they both shifted a bit on their feet as though sizing up the other. Then, as I thought he would, Lachlan threw the first punch…a straight right towards Holmes's face.

Holmes ducked the blow but failed to block the follow-up swing that Lachlan threw just after. He let out a grunt as he was driven back a few feet. A murmur rippled through the crowd and Lachlan grinned. Holmes only scowled in concentration and resumed his stance, bringing up his fists.

Lachlan waited for him to toe the line then quick as lightning jabbed at his jaw then his sides forcing Holmes to take the defensive, driving my friend back. He sent a forceful blow to the side of Holmes's head and again he was sent back into the ropes.

I swallowed in apprehension; taking in the bruise on Holmes' left cheek…perhaps it had been too long.

But once again I was to be proven wrong by my friend for he shook off the blow and came to his feet again, his footing as sure as ever, light as a cat.

Lachlan, still grinning waited for him, more solid than Holmes and more powerful, he swung again and though his blow landed on Holmes's side it was lessened as Holmes's fist connected with his jaw in a forceful left hook. He reacted to the blow and aimed for Holmes's face but my friend dodged, weaved out of his path, and hit the same spot on his jaw twice more.

Lachlan brought his hand up to block that spot and left his right side open, and Holmes took advantage of it by striking him several times over with a straight left in the ribcage.

Now it was Lachlan who let out a grunt and staggered. He delivered another blow to my friends face, halting the blows and skipping away to the left, eyeing the thinner man with more respect. Holmes did not smile as they circled but the amusement and enjoyment of the thing was clear on his face.

They began to exchange blows steadily, circling, dodging and weaving and gaining speed as they went. It is a marvelous thing to see such equally matched opponents move almost in rhythm, Holmes with his quickness, skill, and truly accurate blows, and Lachlan with his force, who while he was not as quick was most definitely skilled.

At last when both men were breathing heavily and sweat stood out on their foreheads, Holmes' eyes began to glint with a determined look which I recognized only too well. Lachlan sent him back onto the ropes again with another smooth hit to the jaw…and advanced, his left coming up with what he obviously thought would be the finishing blow.

In a motion so smooth and quick one could hardly see the transition Holmes ducked under the blow, struck Lachlan in the side and followed with an uppercut that sent him sprawling off his feet and onto his back.

The small crowd exploded in shouting and crowded towards the ring, pressing me against the ropes.

Holmes had walked over to Lachlan and held out his hand to the burlier man who sat fingering his jaw. The seaman smiled sheepishly and accepted the hand, climbing to his feet.

He spoke to Holmes though I could not hear the words for the cacophony of the crowd, but the remark made Holmes laugh outright and they strode to the edge of the ring, climbing through the ropes.

I handed Holmes his clothing and after accepting a towel from another bystander he began to pull them on, his face flushed with victory.

"Enjoy yourself?" I asked, trying not to smile and grimace at the same time…he was mottled with bruises and his lip was split.

"Immensely," he breathed, tying his cravat. "Lachlan is a skilled opponent."

"As are you, Mr. Holmes," Lachlan said as he pulled on a rough woolen shirt and his peacoat. "You beat me fairly…now what is it you gentlemen wish me to show you?"

"We want you to show us the ships." Holmes said accepting his coat from an enthusiastic member of the crowd who held it out for him to slip his arms through.

"What for?" the midshipman asked tucking his hands into his pockets, exchanging a look with me.

I shrugged "I haven't the foggiest idea."

"I would like to interview some of the crew members." Holmes said. "And have a look at the ships themselves…there is a chance that I may find some compound or another which will give us a clue."

Lachlan nodded and shrugged his shoulders to loosen them. "Let's be off then. "

The first ship was not far. And we were able to speak with a crew member though we could not gain passage to it as the guard on duty seemed absolutely incorruptible. The second and third we had more luck with and searched both thoroughly. Holmes was able to collect several samples from the holds, the engine rooms and the coal room.

In the second Lachlan led us to a corner in the hold and pointed out a small mark in the wall.

"That's it Mr. Holmes, Doctor."

There on the wall was scratched the symbol of a small albatross with its wings upheld as though about to burst into flight.

"Hmm." Holmes ran his thumb over it and smiled slightly "They would not think to paint the inside of the ship. Well done Lachlan…this should add some color to your account, Watson."

I ignored the jibe about my writing and while Holmes was crawling about on the floor walked with Lachlan as he pointed out the layout of the ship…and we found that it matched exactly the plans of the ship it had once been.

The fourth, Lachlan's own _Beschermer_, was no longer in port, and though Holmes cursed our luck I had to admit that I was rather relieved, for the cost of information and bribery had lightened both of our pockets, I had eaten nothing all day, and it was past 4-o-clock.

We strode back from the docks in the late afternoon sun, Lachlan with his hands deep in his pockets, his head lifted to the sky in meditation, Holmes going through the samples he had taken and muttering to himself.

I moved into the street to call us a cab, and Lachlan came to join me breaking out of his reverie.

"I can see why you follow him, Doctor."

I looked at him, somewhat puzzled by the statement. "Pardon?"

Lachlan smiled and jerked his head towards Holmes, "Mr. Holmes. I can see why you are so devoted to him. You two have a strong friendship, Doctor. Holmes is a man that bears following and you - I think if he called for it you would give your life for him."

I smiled at that, for it was true in every respect. Holmes had not been mistaken in Lachlan's perceptiveness.

"That is true…but I think it safe to say that he would do the same for me."

Lachlan nodded, staring up at the sky. "Vows made in storms are not forgotten in port."

"What?"

"When a man is at sea Doctor…he has to be honest; the sea makes him to be. The sea, the world is such a violent place that you are forced to make promises and hold loyalties so that you have something to anchor yourself too. Vows made in storms are always honest."

He looked at me again. "Your friendship is the same thing. You and Mr. Holmes have weathered many storms and your loyalties have become something more like a sacred trust. it is a fine thing."

I stared at him with a new eye. Was there no limit to this man, that he was a poet as well?

"Thank you," was all I could think too say before Holmes strode up, breaking the stillness.

"You have been a great help, Mr. Lachlan. I hope to see you again."

Lachlan shook his hand. "A pleasure, Mr. Holmes…Doctor."

He smiled again, met my still startled gaze and strode off, whistling some seaman's chanty.

Holmes smiled after him, clapping me on the back and striding towards the street to fetch us a cab.

"Come along, Watson."

I felt my own smile creep onto my face and followed, the seaman's words engrained in my mind. _Vows made in storms._


	5. In the Offing

Chapter 5: "In the Offing"

In the offing: Nautical term meaning something is about to happen.

_**Watson:**_

_"Oh, better far to live and die_

_Under the brave black flag I fly,_

_Than play a sanctimonious part,_

_With a pirate head and a pirate hear-"_

"Watson! I swear, if I have to hear one of those songs just one once more!"

"I am sorry," I replied sheepishly, trying desperately to not smile in the face of Holmes's irritation, "but the thing keeps going through my head!"

"Yes, and now, thanks to you, it is going through mine! Ugh!"

I settled back in the cab silently, pretending to be hurt by his curt words, and a moment later I saw him peeking at me to see if I were really miffed.

I stared out the window.

"Watson?"

"What?"

"Are you - annoyed with me?"

"Not half as annoyed as you are with me, evidently," I said with a grin, finally looking back at him.

When he realized I had been teasing him mercilessly, he scowled at me in only a half-jesting mood and sent me a withering glare, which I calmly returned – his mood swings no longer frightened me like they used to.

A minute later he started to drum his fingers unconsciously on the side of the cab – and I noticed with a deal of amusement that they were tapping out the tune I had been so unconsciously humming.

Evidently my companion suddenly noticed the fact as well, for he sat bolt upright in the cab, glaring at me again as he ceased the tapping. This time I could not repress my grin, and we both laughed a little ruefully, glancing out and seeing we were nearly back to Baker Street.

"I hope Mrs. Hudson has dinner waiting on us," I remarked as we got out of the cab, "although, if she chanced to see that sitting room, we may have to be fending for ourselves."

"Well, that's all right – we wouldn't have had a place to eat it anyhow," Holmes said breezily, opening the hall door.

"And I suppose I am the one that shall have to clean it all up while you pace around tonight, supposedly 'thinking' about the case?" I asked as we climbed the stairs.

"Well…"

"How is it, Holmes, that you always happen to be 'deep in thought' just when cleaning and filing needs to be done?" I asked, half-seriously.

"I am _always_ thinking, Watson," he replied serenely.

I gave a rather undignified snort as I opened the sitting room – indeed, the mess he had made looked ten times worse, now that I knew I was going to have to be cleaning it up tonight. I shoved the door open with force, because the stack of scrapbooks were still blocking the entrance.

Holmes had entered his bedroom and was now tossing things about in his room.

"What are you doing, Holmes?"

"Can you come in here, Watson?" I heard him bellow.

Sighing, I obeyed and found him changing out of his suit into the rough clothing of a dockhand worker.

"You're going out again!" I cried in dismay.

"It is necessary, Watson," he said, throwing his tie onto the bed and rummaging for a woolen muffler instead.

"But –"

"I need information," he replied, seating himself at his dressing table and beginning to apply a disguise.

This was the first time I had watched him make such a transformation since his return last month, and I sat down in a chair to curiously watch the change in my friend.

"May I come?" I asked hesitantly.

"No," he said shortly, applying a reddish cream to his face to give it a wind-blown appearance.

He must have seen my countenance fall in his dresser mirror, for he amended his statement hastily.

"It is not that I do not want you along, Watson, it is just that –"

"That I have no acting ability whatsoever," I finished ruefully.

"That is not true, Watson," he replied with a sudden vehemence, "you simply lack the necessary background knowledge and all the jargon that goes with it to be a convincing sailor. Thespianism has nothing to do with it."

That mollified me a little, and I did know that he was right. But this was the first time he had gone on part of an investigation without me since his return, and I still was a little hurt by the fact, even if I knew it was necessary.

Holmes was very meticulously darkening his eyebrows and adding some extra bushiness to them with false black hair, and I saw his grey eyes flit up to my face in the mirror. My feelings must, as he had once said, be quite readable on my features, for his gaze softened, and he paused what he was doing to turn round and look at me, as I was sitting there backwards on the chair, my arms resting on the back of it and my chin on my arm.

"I am sorry, Watson – but there is no alternative," he said gently, "and to be brutally honest, I rather would like to have you with me. But it cannot be helped."

I nodded, for I knew he was right. We had no time to waste in this case, and I knew we needed information as quickly as possible. This was the quickest method by which to gain it.

As he saw the resignation in my eyes, Holmes nodded reassuringly and turned round to his dressing table once again. I looked on curiously as he somehow darkened the fine wrinkles round his eyes to make himself appear slightly older and added a reddish makeup to his cheeks, giving the appearance of being a regular pub frequenter.

The transformation became complete when he wound the muffler round his neck, donned a filthy old pea jacket and a cloth cap, and adopted a lazy, sprawling swagger, very different from his normal rigid, proper posture.

"Well, cap'n, all shipshape and Bristol fashion?" he asked in a ridiculous accent, pirouetting for my approval.

I laughed with admiration.

"Quite, Holmes," I said, looking him up and down, "I scarcely would know you."

"Scarcely? Whatever happened to 'good heavens, Holmes, that's amazing!'?" he asked, looking miffed.

"Oh, come on. You're mistaking me for that gullible chap in the _Strand Magazine_," I replied, letting my eyes twinkle at him despite my disappointment in not being allowed to tag along with him.

He threw back his head and laughed, clapping me on the shoulder as he passed.

I smirked and followed him into the sitting room, tripping over the books he had still left in a pile there.

"Oh, I see the real reason you will not let me go tonight," I said suddenly, staring round me at the litter, "you want me to stay here and clean this mess up!"

"Precisely," Holmes said absently, digging through his desk drawer, "I – no, that is not it!" his distracted mind had finally registered what I had said.

It was my turn to laugh at his flushed face.

"What are you looking for now?"

"The list of ships Lachlan gave us, I had it out this morning and tossed it somewhere," he muttered, gazing helplessly about him at the chaos he had created.

"Well, good luck in finding it sometime in the next fortnight," I snorted, picking up a stack of books and beginning to reshelf them on my desk.

He snickered and began digging through a pile of papers on the couch, looking for all the world like a dog hunting for a buried bone.

The mental image made me laugh again, and in consequence I did not hear the door open and was not aware of our estimable landlady's approach.

That is, until she shrieked loud enough to be heard on the Baker Street Underground.

I dropped my dictionary with a crash and Holmes yelped in fright, for he was in the direct line of fire from the doorway. I nearly laughed as he ducked behind the couch for protection, leaving me to try to calm the distraught woman.

"Mrs. Hudson, I promise –"

"Mr. Holmes! Never in all my life –"

"Mrs. Hudson, if you will just –"

"Doctor, I shall not –"

"Mrs. Hudson!" I nearly shouted, "I am remaining behind while Holmes goes out tonight and I promise you I shall have it all cleaned up before midnight!"

The ill-used woman glared at me with a menace I did not remember her possessing.

"See that you do, Doctor," she stated, sending a chilling glower at Sherlock Holmes, who was busily trying to hide behind the sofa.

"I shall, Mrs. Hudson," I said soothingly, trying to forcefully guide the woman out the door, "I shall start on it right away…"

"Hmph," she gave a rather unladylike snort and flounced down the seventeen steps in rather a huff.

I shut the door and breathed a sigh of relief.

"You so owe me tickets to the _Mikado_ for that, Holmes," I said warningly.

He moaned.

"I am not sure which would be worse, eviction from the flat or sitting through another operetta!" my friend said, looking up miserably at me from his still crouching position on the floor.

"I am very likely to not get dinner tonight because of you," I said, putting my hands on my hips and glaring at him as he began to once again root for that map.

"I am sure your charm with the fair sex will get you _something_ before the night is over, Watson," he replied carelessly, flinging several files off to the side, "you know that she does not remain angry for long, and – ha!"

He dove under the couch, his long legs sticking out in a very undignified position, and a moment later he emerged with the very damaged list. Stuffing it into the pocket of his peacoat, he retrieved his cloth cap and took a final look in the mirror before preparing to set off.

"You had better remember everything, Holmes, because you shall have to dictate notes to me when you come back," I warned, following him to the door.

He smiled, clapping a hand on my shoulder.

"I shall, Watson. Don't wait up on me, for I could be late."

I just looked at him incredulously, and he laughed again.

"All right, I shall try to not be _very_ late," he replied with a grin, starting to descend the stairs.

"And be careful, Holmes!" I called after him suddenly.

I heard him laugh and say something about my 'worrying worse than Mrs. Hudson', and then a moment later the hall door shut behind him.

The corners of my mouth turned upward in a small smile that stayed even as I picked my way through the sitting room, which now resembled a battlefield, and peeked out the window. Holmes had already adopted that swaggering gait that made me laugh to watch, as he started off down the street.

I watched til he was out of sight, and then with a sigh I began to clean up the litter that was strewn everywhere in the room, starting with the books and journals. I picked up my books and re-shelved them, stacked Holmes's scrapbooks back on the file cabinet shelves, and put the older journals into the proper drawers.

I rolled up the maps that were lying on the floor and stuffed them behind the silver set on the sideboard for now, leaving the one Holmes had pinned to the wall; better the map to be seen than gaping holes in the wallpaper from his pocketknife!

Then I started on the files, sorting the papers by year and then each pile by month, tying them in neat bundles with twine and finally sorting them into the appropriate drawers. Halfway through, as Holmes had predicted, our good landlady did indeed relent and brought me up a very nice supper, which I was intensely grateful to take a break and consume.

I left the pudding on the table with the coffee until I had done with the files – and as I neared the end, I saw with a deep shock that I had been at this for nearly five hours! It was almost ten o'clock!

I left the pile of papers that seemed to be from Holmes's three-year absence in a neat stack on his desk, not knowing if he would want to file them with the rest of our things, and then I poured myself a cup of coffee, took my pudding dish and (Holmes did not know I owned it, but I did) a copy of a previous _Strand Magazine_ and collapsed in my armchair, severely exhausted by my tidying efforts.

I made a mental note to myself to see about changing the lock on the file cabinet to eliminate further possible destruction scenes like this one in future and turned to the page where my own story was set forth in neat print.

The illustrations in the periodical made me laugh, for Holmes's especially were rather not flattering to him, and I settled back comfortably with a smile for a cozy night by the fire, awaiting my friend's return from his own private little adventure.


	6. Cut and Run

Chapter 6: "Cut and Run"

Cut and run: Nautical term meaning to leave without ceremony.

_**Lachlan:**_

In answer to the request of Dr. Watson, I have written my part and memoirs of this little adventure so he can add them to his own account.

I watched the two of them climb off into their cab, laughing and clapping each other on the back, and could not keep a smile from my face. The world seemed far less harsh with such a friendship in it, and I could not help feeling light after spending some time with them.

I returned to Harry's with the expression still securely on my mug and he looked at me puzzled, but said nothing as I went back to work to make the most of the daylight hours left.

It was a little after nine when Harry finally got up from his desk and he snatched my attention from my work. He nodded to me, speaking little as always and pulled on his coat, heading for the door, leaving his keys for me to lock up.

I had a good stretch for the chair was hard and along with the stiffness that had settled on me I was sore from the bouts of boxing I had done during the afternoon.

Especially the round with Holmes, I thought, smiling again as I touched the wicked bruise on my jaw. The man was as thin as a pole to be sure, but he could pack a wallop, and was as quick as a riptide. I had learnt a definite lesson in humility.

I secured and left the shop then turned to face the dark street, pulling my jacket tighter about me as a cold draft from the river blew up through the thick cotton. It was a hard night, not like the last. The air was alive as it would break into a gale.

I made my way through the near deserted streets to a small pub not a few blocks away.

A rush of warm, odorous air met me, and I felt the chill creep away as I looked round at the familiar liveliness and noise of seamen finished with their day's work and enjoying their drink.

I navigated my way to the aft of the room and sat myself at the table, avoiding the mess that the last fellow had left behind him.

One of the girls, a pretty thing, a little younger than the others came to ask me my business.

I smiled at her asked her for the evening meal and watched as her cheeks turned a scarlet shade, then she skipped off.

(I will take this moment in my narrative to set plain a point for the readers of Doctor Watson who may hold certain questions about my character. A man cannot help but see and appreciate a pretty girl…but I have never been enough of a cad to act on such feelings, especially when the lass is young and knows nothing of the world. I was married once, and the memories of those times are enough for me for the time being.)

She returned a bit later with a steaming meal, which I dug eagerly into; for I had eaten nothing before or after the boxing bouts. When finished I ordered a pint and settled back in my seat to watch the merrymaking of the room.

And that is when I saw him, standing with his back to a wall, leaning heavily on the counter, his eyes peering about him from underneath a pair of bushy black brows.

He looked like every other seaman, with a weatherworn face and dressed in the worn, salt-stained clothes of our class. His expression was brooding and foreboding and he carried himself like a man bent with too many cares for the world.

But there was something about him, some glint in his eyes or slyness in his manner that made me dislike him. He was either out to cause trouble or was in too much trouble to cause it.

It seemed I was not the only one who thought so…for three, hard-looking coves were watching him as well as I.

The fellow had not been there long, for his glass was nearly full, and as I watched he pulled a slow draught then deliberately sloshed some over the sides.

I felt a cold fear down my back at that…he had not come to drink, he had business of some kind, and whatever it was his followers did not like it. Their own drinks were nigh even touched…they could only have been following him.

I sighed and tried to scrub out the exhaustion by rubbing my face with my hand. I was tired and bruised and my supper had only just settled in my stomach. But my cursed curiosity had settled on the man and I would not rest easy until I found out what was up.

I took another draught from my drink…then rose to my feet, clutching the glass, and made my way to the bar, as casual as I could, to lean against the wall not far from where the fellow was. Neither he nor the coves appeared to have noticed.

A few moments passed without trouble and then the barkeep came back round again and the fellow coughed and subtly slid a coin toward him over the surface of the wood.

The barkeep, with an expression as innocent as a newborn babe laid his cloth over the piece and leaned toward the source of his newfound wealth.

"What can I do ye for?" he said pleasantly, in a tone of voice that was too low to draw the crowd's attention but not too subtle as too appear sneaky.

The seaman leaned in a little as well and growled in an accent that was faintly Irish.

"I've just got back into port." He said "And I was te meet a gen'leman 'ere, seems 'e 'as a connection with the Lansing line, said 'e could set me up on one o' their ships. Don't suppose ye've seen anyone like that?"

I shifted a bit at that…as it was too much a coincidence to sit comfortable with me.

"What's 'e look like?"

"Big, burly, has a beard a shade what would make a fire jealous. Name of Wilson."

The knot in my stomach uncurled a touch, for I knew no one of that description.

The barkeep hadn't either for he shook his head and picked up his cloth, leaving not a trace of the coin.

"Sorry, mate, no one like that 'ere. But if I was you I'd count mi'self lucky. There's nothin' good'll come from the workin' for the Lansing line."

The seaman's eyes flashed and he gave the barkeep a sharper look. "Why do ye say that?"

The barkeep cast a guilty glance over at the nearest group of patrons and lowered his voice a touch.

"Haven't yoo 'eard? There's summat 'oo's got it out for the Lansing, not three o' their ships leave port and one of 'em is cursed never to set in again. There's three gone down only these past two weeks."

"Three…in two weeks?" the seaman's voice was hard with skepticism. "I don' believe it."

The barkeep frowned, bothered that his knowledge wasn't appreciated.

"Believe what you like…but there's a good number of men gone missing with those ships…and there's some what say the _Friesland_'ll be next."

The bushy, black eyebrows flew up toward the bloke's cap. "_Friesland_."

"Aye, mate, the _Friesland_…the largest ship the line 'as yet, not one o' their cargo ships this one's a passenger. She's 'eaded out to India in a few days. And yoo mark my word she'll never come back."

"An' what makes yoo think it'll be the _Friesland_. Where'd choo 'ear that, eh?"

"Why…yoo see those three genl'men there." The barkeep, whom I now believed to be one worst idiots I had ever encountered, and with a flapping gob to boot, pointed right at the group. "There was two o' them in 'ere only yesterday…and they was talkin' bout it right as rain. Don' blame 'em really."

The seaman had gone stiff and turned his head a fraction of an inch to look at the group. If he hadn't known he was being followed he knew now and he was a fool if he stuck around here any longer.

And I would be a bigger fool if I let him slip away. Whoever this bloke was, he knew about the mystery and would be of great use to Holmes and the Doctor.

Even as I thought this the fellow put another coin down on the counter and began to make his way toward the door. The group at the table made no sign that they noticed, but that did not mean they weren't watching.

I would have to get to him first.

I let him get halfway to the door before I set down my glass and a few coins of my own, then I followed.

The night had grown lighter for the moon was out at last and nearly full, casting the dockyards of London in a silver light that seemed eerie in this situation. I stayed by the entrance as the man disappeared round a house, and then I went the same path myself.

For several blocks I was able to keep him in sight, and he led me quite a ways away from the pub through the winding streets.

I lost sight of him at last as he disappeared into a dark alley and I paused…it was not the smartest thing for a man to do, but on the other hand I could not let such a prize slip through my hands. I pulled my jacket closer round me and made my way forward.

Halfway through something caught me at the legs and I went pitching forward. A pair of steely hands gripped me by the collar and tried to turn me over. I struggled, sending a blow towards the bloke but I could see fairly little.

The hands closed over my throat and I gripped a pair of thin sinewy wrists.

"Who are you?" I gasped out, perhaps I could make him spill…if it came down to a fight I was confident I could beat him.

At my words the man froze then with a curse he released his grip, shook his hands free and took off back the way we had come.

I scrambled to get to my feet and follow.

He had already disappeared and I cursed myself liberally, for there was no way to trace him. I could only backtrack and hope that I spotted some sign.

I was halfway back to the pub when I was halted by a sound…a groan.

There to my left was a man curled up at the base of a set of stone steps. I turned him on his back and with a thrill I recognized it as one of the three men from the pub…they were after him as well and the tricky little devil must have taken this one out, for there was a bad bruise on the fellow's head.

Cursing the hard, cobblestoned street that left no chance of footprints I took off down the side alley where the unconscious man lay. I continued on this course for a few minutes when I was at last I was met with another sound.

Grunts and scuffling…the sound of a struggle.

I stopped before a small yard that stood in back of an old storehouse, three figures struggled on the inside.

My quarry was holding his own, keeping back his opponents with his fists, dodging and weaving and…

The same thrill of recognition I had had when seeing the _Beschermer_ struck me now and I'm not ashamed to say that my jaw dropped and stayed like that long enough for a horsefly to make its way in and out again.

I had seen this man and his fighting style before, I had fought him only this morning. And I stood frozen to the spot in shock. The Doctor's stories had described Holmes's skill in playacting, and it seemed that, like with the boxing, I had underestimated him.

His attackers were getting frustrated and were already bruised with the detective's blows, even as I watched his fist sent one of them sprawling. The fellow landed on his back, his teeth set in rage and embarrassment, he reached into his belt, and I saw a flash of light as the moon reflected off a metallic surface.

My shock and horror at the sight of the object galled me into action. I sprinted forward even as Holmes sent the second man back and turned to meet the rush of the first.

Holmes caught his fist, and I saw his eyes widen as he saw too late the blade going for his belly.

The detective twisted, and the blade cut into his side. His thin body recoiled and he let out a harsh shout of pain. His attacker shoved him down towards the ground and landed atop him.

And then I reached them.

And broke the man's face.

I have met men in the East who can break wood and blocks of ice and stone with their fists. My own came close to bringing the same fate to the man's skull.

He shrieked in pain and fell back clutching at the broken bones of his cheek. I turned as his partner came at me next and met his wild attack with several well-placed blows that disabled him, then I brought a left hook to his jaw that dropped him like a stone.

I straightened, breathing heavily, ready to give the same treatment to the man who had stabbed Holmes…but the bloke had fled, knife and all. Perhaps I could find him, for in my mind I wanted nothing more than to hunt him down - he could not have gotten far.

A muffled groan brought me back to myself and I turned to see Mr. Holmes on his back, trying to push himself up with his left hand, his right clutching at his stomach. The fall had knocked the hat off his head, his black locks were disheveled and his now pale face was a mask of pain.

I hurriedly knelt beside him. And he gave me a rather pinched smile. "Mr. Lachlan…sorry to call upon you so soon."

With this remark the rage against his attackers faded and I felt another sort of anger. "You bloody fool! What do you mean drawing this sort of attention to yourself?! Have you no consideration for the Doctor!?" my voice was harsh with strain, but I was glad to find that my hands held steady.

Holmes took a shallow gasp and made to answer me but just then his eyes rolled up into his head and he would have fallen back had I not caught him.

He was shaking from reaction to the wound and he was already pale. I pulled his unresisting hand from his stomach and gently pulled back his coat, the wound looked bad, but I had no knowledge of such things.

His shirt was already soaked, he was losing blood too quickly. I pulled the scarf from around his neck and pressed it against the wound then wrapped the coat around him. He needed help.

"Holmes, where is the nearest hospital?" I asked patting his face lightly, "I don't know London. You must have help."

The detective shivered slightly and his eyes refocused. "Baker Street." His voice was a rasp.

"No, Mr. Holmes. You need medical help, I will get you there but you must direct me."

Holmes shook his head, "No…Watson…I need Watson…Baker Street…"

"You stubborn son of a camel."

I muttered this to myself, but I understood. He needed to go home to be safe, like a wounded animal…and who better to care for him than his greatest friend?

"All right Holmes, Baker Street it is. Come with me." I pulled his right arm around my shoulder and raised him slowly to his feet.

He came, but when he was halfway up he let out a sharp cry of agony and tried to curl in on himself.

I bent and caught hold of his legs, sweeping his thin form up into my arms…but even this caused him hurt. He choked and clenched his jaw, biting back a scream.

I carried him from the courtyard and up the streets of the dockyards towards the main roads - we would find a cab.

Holmes came back to himself and shifted in my grip. I tightened my hold.

"Stay still, Holmes you can't walk…it would damage the wound. And Dr. Watson would have my head."

The detective chuckled weakly before relapsing once more into a moan. My rapid pace was jarring him painfully, but I didn't dare to slow…the bleeding was too heavy.

At last we reached the city itself and I began in the direction of Baker Street, praying for the sight of a cab. Holmes had gone limp in my hold, he clutched at the wound with both hands, and his breath came hard and fast through his nose. He was clenching his jaw again, biting back the screams. His brow furrowed as he fought the pain with his iron will.

At last the sound of trotting hooves reached my ears and I looked up to see a cab on its way toward us. It was occupied by the figure inside of it. I would take care of that.

I set Holmes gently on the ground then as the horse drew near I stepped out beside it waving my arms.

"Whoa there!"

The beast whinnied and skived violently, its driver struggled to get it under control. I pulled open the door and an indignant, finely dressed gentleman glared at me.

"What do you think you are doing?" he spluttered, his bushy sideburns bristling.

"I have a wounded man, he needs help, I'm commandeering your cab."

"I refuse!"

"I wasn't asking."

I took hold of his fur-lined coat and hauled him out into the street than hurried back to Holmes and lifted him, my stomach squirming at the amount of blood on the man's shirt and the half sob that escaped his lips. His hands clenched convulsively at my jacket and I carried him to the cab, lying him on the seat and climbing in after him.

"221b Baker Street, man, and hurry!" I shouted to the cabbie who after a startled look turned his horse.

I bent over Holmes, pressing on the wound myself, causing him to cry out again and try to squirm out from under my hands.

I pushed him back down and wrapped the coat more snugly around him as he spoke, "Lachlan…Watson will…Watson…"

"I'll get you to him, Holmes, I promised…rest easy."

He moaned and turned his head, losing consciousness at last.

"**PIRATE**!" the former occupant screamed at us.

I stuck my head out of the front of the cab and called back. "Close enough!"

Then the cab pulled away towards Baker Street and Dr. Watson.


	7. Middle Watch

Chapter 7:"Middle Watch"

Middle Watch: Nautical term for the period of watch on a ship that goes from midnight to four in the morning.

_**Watson:**_

I was abruptly awakened by the violent ringing of the doorbell – staring sleepily round me, I realized I had dozed off in front of the fire, exhausted with my cleaning efforts.

The bell rang again, a very rude, long pull, and I glanced at the clock in annoyance. After eleven – I had only been asleep for around an hour. The bell rang frantically yet again, and I finally got up in great irritation, assuming that Mrs. Hudson had gone to bed.

Grumbling under my breath, I stomped rather in a temper down the seventeen steps and went to the front door, ready to give whoever was ringing it at this ungodly hour the dressing-down of a lifetime, and flung it open with rather too much force.

And then my heart seemed to stop beating for a moment, dropping directly into my shoes as an icy cold wave of fear gripped it with a deathly hold.

"Lachlan! What – what the devil happened?" I managed to gasp out, absolutely terrified, grabbing the unconscious form of Sherlock Holmes as Lachlan's grip on his limp body started to slip.

"Oof. Attacked, Doctor," the man gasped, releasing his hold as I picked up my friend's thin form easily in the fashion I used to carry wounded men off the Afghan battlefield, "three men – on the docks – knives – left side – fainted in the cab –"

Holmes was breathing, shallowly, I could tell that at least, as I raced as fast as my burden would allow up to Holmes's bedroom, kicking the door open as I went.

"Get up here, man – I may need your help!" I called frantically over my shoulder, my fright at not knowing how badly Holmes was hurt coloring my words with unaccustomed harshness.

"Where's yer bag, Doctor?" he bellowed on his way up.

"On my desk in the sitting room!" I called back, breathing hard under Holmes's dead weight.

I laid Holmes gently on his bed and turned the gas up – and at once felt a sickening sense of nausea as I saw the amount of blood on his jacket and shirt. My hands were shaking so badly that I could barely unbutton and remove his blood-soaked clothing, and Lachlan came in halfway through, brusquely pushing me aside, and did it for me.

He then dropped my bag on the bed beside me and vanished into our sitting room, returning in just a moment with a glass of brandy in his hand, which he wordlessly handed to me.

I had no time to wonder at his actions but swallowed it down, willing myself to get a grip on my nerves and help my friend.

I pulled the shirt away gently from where it had been pressed against the wound, by Holmes himself apparently, judging from the amount of blood on his hands, and recoiled at the sight of the nasty gash on his left side.

I swallowed hard and forced myself to treat Holmes as merely another patient, not as the most important person in the world to me – and in consequence I categorized the wound as being a deep grazing blow; thankfully it had not touched any bones or vital organs. Providence had been watching out for both of us.

But he had lost a serious amount of blood, and his pulse was very weak. I forced calm into my voice as I began to sterilize the wound and speak to our client.

"What happened, Lachlan, from the beginning?" I asked, cleaning the gash with disinfectant. Holmes remained completely unconscious, for which I was grateful.

"I was in a pub there by th' river, Doctor, when he came in askin' a bunch of questions about ships and so on. Bleedin' good disguise of his, that one is – I didn't recognize him at all," the man said, helpfully pouring water into a basin for me as I began to stitch the wound.

"And I thought he was rather a suspicious piece o' work, askin' that many questions, so I followed 'im after he left," the midshipman continued. "He got tangled with the wrong men asking the wrong questions at the wrong time, and got into one rare fight. Nasty bunch o' sailors, that."

"How many, did you say?" I asked, concentrating on the stitches.

"Three, doctor. If they 'adn't had those knives, I rather believe he would have taken all three of them out, too," the man said, watching my work. Lachlan went on to tell me what Holmes had found out about some steamship in the Lansing line, information he had gotten while in the pub – but I was really not listening to him in the least.

I finished stitching the wound and bathed the whole thing once more in antiseptic – I was very worried about the sailor's knife involved, for it was in all probability extremely dirty.

At the stinging touch of the disinfectant, Holmes moaned and began to stir uneasily.

"Easy, old chap," I murmured, patting his shoulder reassuringly as he tried to move, his eyelids fluttering.

"Watson?" his voice was merely a faint whisper.

"Yes, my dear fellow," I said, my voice shaking badly, whether from fright or relief, I was not sure which, "you mustn't talk now."

Holmes's grey eyes finally flickered open, and after a vacant moment they settled on my pale, worried features, and I saw a small smile cross his face.

"Sorry, Watson," he whispered weakly, trying to focus.

"Shhh, Holmes, you have to rest now," I said soothingly, "there is nothing to be sorry about."

"Yes," his weak voice was only a whisper once more, "sorry – told you – I would – be careful…"

I stared at him incredulously, tears stinging at the back of my eyes – after being knifed, he was mainly concerned about causing me to worry. I should never fully understand that man.

"Watson, I –" he stopped with a gasp as a sudden pain shot through his body, and I gripped his hand in both of mine as it clenched convulsively.

"Holmes, you have lost a good deal of blood, and you _must_ rest now," I said, wishing my voice would stop its confounded trembling.

His eyes opened halfway and he looked over at Lachlan, who nodded encouragingly, and then he closed them once more, his hand going limp in mine a minute later as he either fell asleep or lost consciousness again.

I took a long, shaky breath and looked at the seaman.

"How bad is it, Doctor?"

"He has lost a large amount of blood – will be rather weak for a day or two," I replied, beginning to clean the stains off Holmes's hands, "and I am very fearful of an infection. If none sets in, he should be fine in a short time."

"Aye, that is good news," the man said with relief, handing me a roll of bandages and assisting me in wrapping them round Holmes's thin frame to protect the stitches.

"Thank you for aiding him, Lachlan," I said quietly when we had finished, pulling up the coverlet over Holmes's motionless form, "I hate to think – to think what would have happened had you not been there to help."

My voice shook with lingering fear on that last statement, and the man nodded at me.

"I think you might need another drink, Doctor, for it looks as if you will be havin' a long night."

I sighed. "Indeed. Please, help yourself to one as well."

The seaman nodded, disappearing into the sitting room as I finished cleaning Holmes's hands. He returned a moment later with two glasses, one of which he handed to me.

"I – I surely do wish I had seen the trouble sooner, Doctor, and been able to catch the fellows," he said, looking down at Holmes's still form with knitted brows.

"If you had not stopped to help him, Lachlan, he might have bled to death right there," I returned, downing my drink in one gulp, "I shall be forever in your debt for that."

The sailor's blue eyes met mine with that same steady, honest gaze he had given me earlier in the evening.

"As I said, Doctor, remember the storms – it is then that the greatest promises are made, and the greatest friends are found," the man said, his words bringing a smile to my face, for I recognized the hidden writer's potential.

"You are a wise man, Lachlan."

"Hmm. That's as may be," our client replied wryly, setting his glass down and thanking me. He picked up his hat from the table and shook my hand after donning it.

"Thank you again," I replied quietly, as Lachlan tipped the hat to me and went off down the stairs.

I washed my hands in a clean basin of water and put away my medical supplies, taking out my thermometer and placing it Holmes's mouth.

He had no fever as of yet, but that meant nothing. I should have to observe him carefully. I put my bag down beside the bed and pulled up a chair, then going out to the sitting room to retrieve a couple books and a pillow from the couch, preparing to keep a long vigil over my friend.

I stared moodily at the pages of my journal for over an hour, idly doodling in the margins of the book, unable to focus my thoughts enough to write anything. I was still scared petrified, the cold shock of fear still holding me in its grip.

I had only just gotten Holmes back from the dead a month ago, and now the thought that if the injury had been three inches further left it would have taken him from me yet again terrified me beyond description. I knew I should not be able to stand a second loss such as my first in 1891 – I physically and emotionally would have broken.

Three inches.

That is all it would have taken to lose him.

Three inches.

I dropped the pencil, my fingers trembling too badly to hold onto it properly, and lowered my head into my shaking hands.

Three inches, that was all. Was it possible that life could hang from so slender a thread? But for the grace of God, Holmes could have met his death tonight on the London docks, snuffed out without a second's hesitation by drunken sailors.

My thoughts were interrupted by a sound from the bed, and I quickly lifted my head – and was immediately alarmed to see that Holmes's face was flushed, and he was moving about uneasily and shivering.

My anxiety deepened as I laid my hand on his perspiring forehead – yes, as I had feared, he was running a fever - and it was only two hours after the injury! I hastily got the thermometer back out and took his temperature once more – 100.3. This was not good.

He was restless but not conscious, obviously in great discomfort. I put another blanket over him and then fetched a pitcher of water and a clean cloth. Dipping it in the water, I wrung it out and gently laid it on his forehead, and I was glad to see him quiet somewhat and stop the agitated movement.

I watched anxiously through the next hour, my alarm growing increasingly greater as the fever climbed. After an hour, the wound on his side was red and inflamed, and when I cleaned it once again with antiseptic, he awoke with a choked cry of pain.

"Holmes, lie still!" I said unsteadily as he tried feebly to push my hand away.

His grey eyes were looking at me vacantly, bright with the fever, and the look reminded me with a shiver of that evening when I thought him to be a victim of Culverton Smith's dread disease. I shook off the chilling fear and sat on the edge of the bed by him.

"Watson? Where am I? What – what happened?" he asked weakly, obviously disoriented.

"You were attacked on the docks, Holmes, and your wound has become infected," I said gently, "now you are ill, and you must lie quietly."

He looked at me in confusion, his face flushed, his breathing shallow. I laid my hand again on his head, and drew it back on the instant in fearful shock – he was burning up with fever, the radiating heat so intense it frightened me.

I took his temperature again – 102.6. It was rising swiftly, far too swiftly, and it was now only 2:30 am. Holmes's eyes had closed, but he opened them again with a cry of pain as I started to disinfect the inflamed injury again and he tried feebly to move away.

The fact that I was causing him such pain drove a dagger into my own heart, but I set my jaw and continued, motivated by the flush on his normally pale face and the way his eyes were unfocused and dark. There was a sheen of sweat on his gaunt features as he squeezed his eyes tightly shut to deal with the stinging pain of the antiseptic.

By the time I had finished, he was shivering even under the blankets, even though it was rather hot in the room, and I piled another afghan on top of him, watching his face worriedly. His breathing was becoming alarmingly shallow now, his perspiring face pinched and drawn as he curled up on his uninjured side in a miserable ball.

I re-wet the cloth and put it back on his head, and his eyelids fluttered open for a moment. I heard a murmured "Thank you, Watson," before they closed once more, and again I was dumbfounded by the man's unusual consideration for me, even when he was desperately ill.

I put the thermometer once again in his mouth, timed it, and removed it, looking at the level of mercury in the glass.

103.4. This was fast becoming critical. I glanced at the time. 2:45 am.

I set the instrument down with a trembling hand and began to fill the water basin with fresh, cold water, getting several towels from the hall closet. As the first one, chilled with the water, made contact with Holmes's skin, he gasped aloud and his eyes flew open.

"Too – too cold, Watson," he gasped, his eyes glazed with the fever, shivering violently.

"I know, Holmes," I said soothingly, continuing to apply the cold compresses to his neck and chest.

"N-no," he protested feebly, trying weakly to push my hand away.

"Holmes, you have a fever," I said, my voice shaking as I felt the heat emanating from him, "and we have to bring it down."

The quiet whimper he made as I got too near his injury nearly made me lose my composure completely, but I gritted my teeth and continued applying the cold compresses. I once again took his temperature, and swallowed hard when I read it.

3:35 am. 104.8.

A few tenths of a degree further, and it would be very, very dangerous. I had to bring that fever down, and I had to do it now.

I began to work desperately, trying everything I knew to try, my alarm growing by leaps and bounds every minute that passed. Within a quarter of an hour, Holmes was rambling, delirious, his eyes fixed upon me with no recognition whatsoever.

4:20 am. 105.5.

I listened as I worked desperately over the helpless form of my dearest friend, as his overactive fevered mind conjured up every conceivable villain from his past, some I recognized and many more that I did not.

I tried to quiet him as he once more fought to kill Grimesby Roylott's swamp adder, blocking his swinging arms as he attempted to strike the snake he evidently saw in front of him. I held him down as he battled Professor Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls yet again, tears filling my eyes at his delirious ramblings. I heard my own name mentioned time after time, but his fevered eyes never realized I was there.

Some names he muttered I did not recognize, and all I could do was to work without ceasing to bring his fever down, alternating the cold compresses with warm ones, trying to get him to sweat the thing out.

5:30 am. 105.8.

I broke into a cold sweat myself – it was climbing still! Slower than before, but it was still climbing!

I have not, throughout my life, been as much of a praying man as I should, but I swear on all I hold dear that I was praying that dark night, like I never had before.

Holmes muttered something unintelligible, and then his eyes opened, looking through me blankly, unseeing.

"Lie still, Holmes," I said shakily as he tried to move away from my touch, flinching as I checked the wound. It looked like perhaps the redness had subsided somewhat. I prayed so.

Holmes said something I could not understand; he was incoherent.

6:10 am. 106.

I watched, petrified, as I pressed another cold compress onto his head, his breathing become even shallower, coming in short gasps now as the fever ravaged his body.

"Holmes," I said, talking aloud while I worked desperately over him, "do not give up on me now! I did not get you back from the dead only to lose you so soon – don't you _dare_ give up! You have to fight this!"

My voice was shaking and my own words were as disjointed and rambling as his, but I cared nothing for that. I continued to restrain him as his fevered imaginings grew violent again and I continued to apply the compresses, all the while pleading with him to fight.

I checked his temperature again – but it was the same. Thank God it had not risen at least.

I continued to frantically apply those compresses without resting, desperately trying to lower that fever. But after fifteen more minutes and it had not gone down, I was beside myself with worry. Holmes was now barely conscious, drifting in and out of delirium, not even able to drink the water I attempted to get him to try.

He shivered uncontrollably and tried to pull the blankets up, and I had to keep him from doing so, his weak pleading protests ringing in my ears heartwrenchingly. His breathing became even more shallow, if that were possible, until it looked as if he were barely drawing air at all, and I was frantic with panic – there was no more I could do.

I could only continue to do what I had been doing, continue to work and pray.

I glanced at the clock again; I had been working over him for over seven hours straight! And it had done absolutely no good!

I sank down exhaustedly into the chair beside Holmes's bed, watching helplessly as his chest rose and fell with every shallow breath he managed to take, occasionally moving a little sluggishly or moaning in his sleep.

I was shaking all over, from fear or exhaustion, more likely both, and I put my head down in my hands once more, trying to get a grip on myself, praying and praying desperately for a miracle to happen and for the fever to recede. I could do nothing else; it was out of my hands now.

How long I stayed in that position I am not sure, something like a half hour, because I knew nothing more until suddenly I felt a tentative hand on my knee and a hoarse voice whispering my name, and I jerked my head up with a strangled gasp.

Holmes was awake, looking at me with concern written upon his sick, haggard face – but it was no longer that dangerously flushed color but rather his normal pallor. My breath caught in my throat as I hastily sat on the bed and laid a hand on his forehead, hardly daring to hope.

But it was so – although he felt a little warm still, it was no longer that high dangerous fever. It had finally broken – the crisis was over.

6:50 am.

He would be fine.

"How – how do you feel, Holmes?" I asked shakily as his eyes fastened upon mine, now free of that dark vacancy that had haunted his delirium.

"Rather poorly," he whispered weakly, trying to manage a smile at me.

"You've had a bad night, old chap," I said, trying to still my trembling voice, "frightened me half to death, you know."

"A thousand apologies, my dear Watson," he said, feebly trying to pat my arm reassuringly, "What – what time is it?"

I glanced at the clock.

"Ten of seven, Holmes."

His weary eyes made their scrutinizing way over my face, and his brows, still bushy from his disguise, knitted together in a long black line.

"You've been up all night," he whispered.

"Even ill, you are still capable of deduction, my dear Holmes," I said, trying to chuckle through the catch in my throat.

"Go to bed, Watson," he said, making a pathetic attempt to glare at me.

"I shall when I am satisfied you are out of danger, and not before," I replied softly, getting up and checking the gash in his side – it was most definitely looking better. I turned the gas down to darken the room and shut the blinds completely.

"Holmes, I need you to drink this," I said, pouring a glass of water from the carafe on the table.

He opened his eyes and obediently tried to sit up, not quite managing it before I slipped an arm round his back and aided him. I noted how little fuss he made about it, an indication of how exhausted he really was. I had put only a very slight pain reliever in the water, knowing that he was bound to be so tired from fighting the fever that his body would probably shut down without any artificial aid.

He finished the water and I settled him back on the bed, pulling the blankets up round him and taking his temperature once more.

99.2.

"Thank God," I whispered fervently, collapsing at last into my chair, literally spent with weariness and worry.

Holmes's breathing had begun to even out slowly, and as I uttered the devout prayer of gratefulness, his eyes opened halfway and he looked at me.

"I could hear you, you know," he whispered sleepily, only half-conscious.

"What's that, old fellow?"

"Toward the end – I could hear you – telling me – not – to give up," Holmes murmured, his eyelids drooping as the medication and his exhaustion began to take its effect.

A moment later he was asleep, but his words lingered in my mind for a long time afterwards.


	8. Shows His True Colors

Chapter 8: "Shows His true Colors"

Shows his true colors: Nautical term referring to the flag insignia that a ship displayed so that both enemies and friends could recognize it.

_**Watson:**_

I sat beside Holmes's bed for what seemed like an eternity, but what was in reality only close to two hours, just watching his calm, even breathing, reassuring myself that the fever had subsided and he was no longer in such deadly danger.

I checked his temperature once more around nine o'clock, and could have cried for relief when I found it had returned to normal. My friend's pulse was slow but steady – he would indeed be all right after a couple days' rest to restore his blood loss.

As I began to put my instruments away, noting absently how badly my hands were shaking either from reaction or fatigue, I heard the pealing of the front doorbell. Since I could smell Mrs. Hudson's breakfast cooking, thereby indicating she was up and about, I made no move to leave the room and was startled a moment later to hear loud angry voices in the hall.

I threw another glance at Holmes's sleeping form and then softly closed the door of his bedroom, entering the hall and looking down the stairs.

I should have laughed at Mrs. Hudson's ferocious refusal to let the two men up who were standing in the entryway, had I not recognized Lachlan and – that must be one of the men who had attacked Holmes last night, judging from the way that the midshipman was holding him tightly by the scruff of the neck.

My face flushed hot with barely controlled rage, and I took the steps down to the hall three at a time.

"I shall deal with this, Mrs. Hudson," I said angrily, "and would you all please remember I have a patient upstairs?! Lachlan, what is this row about?"

I had landed with a thump in the hall in front of the taller man and was glaring up at him.

"This 'ere's the man that stabbed Mr. Holmes last night, Doctor," the man growled, shaking the cowering little blackguard as a terrier shakes a rat, "I found 'im just over an hour ago down in th' docks – recognized my handiwork here on his face from last night's scrap!"

I could not help but wince as Lachlan indicated what looked like a broken cheekbone and a very nasty mottled mass of purple-green bruises – the seaman must be as strong as an ox, and I for one would never wish to be on his bad side.

But it was less than what the villain deserved, for what he did last night. I set my jaw, thinking of how I had almost lost the only person I had left in the world that I could say I truly cared for; and how close this man had come to robbing me of him.

"Take him up to the sitting room, Lachlan," I ordered, my voice deadly calm, "I have a few questions I wish to put to him."

The man made a sniveling, whimpering noise at my words.

Lachlan was staring at me strangely, but he smirked and then began to haul the man up the stairs by his collar.

I took a deep breath, closing my eyes for a moment, and then followed.

I peeked into Holmes's bedroom, seeing that he still was resting as comfortably as he had been for the last two hours, and then I entered the sitting room through the bedroom entrance. Lachlan had flung the man down on the couch and was standing in front of him. He glanced up as I entered.

"How is he, Doctor?"

"I – I nearly lost him last night," I responded hesitantly, "his fever peaked at 106 degrees, and it looked very bad there for about an hour. There had to have been a deal of poison or bacteria, or _something_ on that knife for it to spike so high so quickly."

A sudden flush of anger spread over Lachlan's face that turned it into a mirror image of my own.

"Is he –"

"He will live, I know that now," I said, my voice suddenly hardening as I looked at the man responsible. "No thanks to you, sir! What is your name?"

The man glared at me out of the one eye he could use properly, and Lachlan grabbed him and yanked him up out of his seat by his collar. The fellow's face changed from defiance to fear as the seaman's huge hands closed upon him.

"Hawking," the man gasped, looking terrifiedly at me.

"Lachlan," I said in the same cold tone of voice I had used downstairs, "let go of the man."

"What?"

"I said let go of him."

Our client stared at me, but then he released his hold, and the sailor stood trembling before me.

"Now, Hawking," I continued, a deadly calm filling my voice with a suppressed menace that startled even me, "you will tell me why you and your two friends took it into your heads to attack a lone man in the Dockyards last night."

"Not on your life, gov'!" the man said insolently, now that he knew I was not going to let Lachlan touch him.

The seaman's honest face flushed with anger, but I held up a restraining hand.

"I would not be impertinent if I were you," I said, stepping up to the man and facing him toe to toe, "I would like nothing better than to teach you the proper way to answer a question."

The man glared at me out of his good eye, giving a snort of disgust.

"Hawking. I am waiting."

With a foul oath the man suddenly brought his fist up in a sweeping roundhouse toward my face. I promptly ducked under the blow, blocked a second and third, and then landed one of my own on the already broken part of his face that sent the fellow sprawling on the floor with a shriek of pain.

As he fell I could imagine his scream being close to the cries of agony Holmes had made last night when Lachlan caught up with him after he had been stabbed, and my vision suddenly clouded with a blind red fury.

I reached down, grabbed the man, and yanked him up by his cravat, grasping him with a hatred I had rarely felt before in my life. He gasped, clutching my tight wrists, still moaning from the pain of the new injury, and I could hear in his whimpers the same sounds I had heard all night as I tried to save Holmes.

"So help me, Hawking, I should kill you right here and now," I hissed through my clenched jaw, very seriously considering choking off the fellow's flow of air. It would be so easy, so very easy…

"Might be a bit hard to explain tha' to the police, Doctor," Lachlan drawled from behind me.

The sound of the man's calm voice suddenly penetrated my emotionally driven rage, and I realized I had been completely out of control.

Breathing heavily, I threw the cowering man roughly onto the couch and stalked over to our client, who was standing leaning casually against the fireplace watching the scene.

"Can you tell me about this man again, Lachlan," I said, my voice rather unsteady, "I was not listening to you last night. No, Mr. Hawking, you will kindly stay where you are! I have a gun in this drawer and I would be only too thrilled for you to give me an opportunity to use it!"

The man had started to glance surreptitiously at the sitting room door, and I pulled my revolver out of my desk and held it on him as Lachlan and I talked. Evidently the villain sincerely believed I would shoot him if he moved, for he sat as if frozen while Lachlan explained to me about the events in the pub last night.

"I had the very devil to pay tryin' to locate the blighters last night and into this morning, Doctor," Lachlan went on, "finally come across this 'un at one o' the local druggists – 'e was in there buying a painkiller for that face. Soon as I found him I tacked straight round and set my course for Baker Street, knowing he would be of use to you."

A bit of my anger dissipated at the knowledge that while I had been fighting all night to save Holmes's life, our client had also been sleepless, pursuing the men responsible.

"Any sign of the other two?"

"No, Doctor, I am sorry."

"Thank you, Lachlan. You have indeed gone far and above duty being helpful to us," I said quietly, much more in control now. I turned and looked at the man still cringing on the couch.

"Now, Mr. Hawking," I said, my teeth set, "you will tell me why you and those partners of yours attacked that man in the docks last night."

The fellow was holding his broken face, whimpering and looking up at me.

Calmly, coolly this time, I hauled him to his feet and put my face close to his.

"Was it because of the Lansing line?" I fired a rapid question toward him.

His face blanched white behind the bruises, and I knew I had hit home.

"All right, who told you to scare off anyone asking questions about the Lansing line?" I demanded, my patience now non-existent.

The man cowered away from my gaze but shook his head vigorously.

"You know, don't you – and you're afraid of them!" I said, shaking the man a little.

His round dark eyes in his white face were testimony to the veracity of my words. I released the man, shoving him back to the couch, and turned to Lachlan. The man looked at me.

"You shan't get any more out of him, Doctor," he said slowly, "I've seen that look o' fear before – he's more scared of whoever's behind this than he is of us. Which is quite a lot, apparently."

I sighed. "Right then, Lachlan. I shall send for the police. Can you watch - Hawking!"

My sentence ended in a sharp exclamation as the man bolted for the door at the mention of the police. I jumped over the couch after him, chasing the fellow down the stairs. Behind me I heard a hoarse shout from Lachlan but I paid no heed, racing down the steps after the man.

"Hawking! Stop or I'll shoot!" I yelled as I chased him, just as he got the front door open. I would not chance a shot in a crowded street, as well he knew, however, and I shoved the gun into my pocket and followed him out into the bustle of a midmorning Baker Street.

I dodged and weaved around passers-by, trying to keep the man's fleeing form in sight, but I got stuck behind a woman with a cart of fruit and it slowed me down for several seconds. When I finally got round the woman, I reached the street corner and stared about me, breathing heavily, trying to find the sailor in the crowd.

He had vanished.

"Doctor Watson!" a small lad cried, rushing up to me with a cheerful wave.

"Alfie!" I said excitedly to the little Irregular, "I need you to do a job for me!"

"Sure, gov'! Wot is 't?"

"I was just now chasing a man, I need you to try and find him. He can't have got far yet unless he picked up a cab. About my height, dark hair and eyes, navy blue pea jacket. His whole left side of his face is covered in purple bruises. Find him, lad, and I'll give you a sovereign!"

The boy's eyes grew round as saucers.

"What'd 'e do, Doctor? Kill somebody?" the lad gasped in amazement at the amount I was offering him.

"He very nearly killed Mr. Holmes, Alfie. Now hurry, off with you! Report back to Baker Street – and try to get the rest of the lads on it as well!" I said, and the boy nodded and scampered off down the street, weaving in and out of the crowd like a little mouse.

I watched him for a moment, hoping that the Irregulars would be able to locate the man I had lost. And due to my own carelessness. I had been so blinded by hate and anger that I had not kept all my faculties alertly about me. I could see why Holmes did not encourage emotional displays of any kind – it certainly did, as he said, cloud the thinking processes.

I made me way back to Baker Street with a despondent heart, my eyes downcast. As I entered the door and shut it behind me, Mrs. Hudson started into some barrage about 'undesirable characters fighting in my own house!' which I dutifully tried to listen to but failed rather completely.

Lachlan heard my steps on the stairs, evidently, for he hollered down to me.

"Did you get him, Doctor?"

"No," I called back, "he was too fast in the crowd outside!"

This staircase had never seemed this long, and I realized afresh how completely exhausted I really was. I wearily pushed open the door of the sitting room – but our client was not in there.

"Lachlan?"

"In here, Doctor," the man called urgently, and the voice was coming from Holmes's bedroom.

My breath caught in my throat – Holmes! Had he taken a turn for the worse?

I jumped over to the doorway, dashing into the dimly lit room – and stopped short, limp with relief.

"Good morning, Watson," Holmes said softly, looking up at me from where Lachlan was settling him back, propped up against the headboard.

"Holmes," I gasped breathlessly, leaning on the doorframe in my relief. "How – how are you feeling?"

"Rather like I wish I had taken you along last night," he replied weakly, leaning back tiredly against the pillows.

Lachlan came over, took my elbow, and pushed me into the chair beside Holmes's bed. Then before I registered what he was doing, he had left the room and shut the door behind him.

Holmes and I looked at each other a little awkwardly, and I cleared my throat.

"Did I wake you up just now?" I asked hesitantly.

"I do not know who did," he said, "it seemed that there was quite a bit of excitement going on here in the last eight hours."

I nodded, not trusting my voice to very many words just yet.

Holmes turned those keen grey eyes in my direction.

"You still haven't slept yet, have you?"

"Stunning deduction, my dear Holmes. You scintillate this morning," I replied, my shaky voice belying the humor in my words.

Holmes snorted, and his thin lips twitched in a smile. Then his eyes and his voice softened slightly.

"How long was I ill, Watson?"

I thought back – it all seemed like such a horrid nightmare.

"A good seven hours, Holmes," I said, wishing my voice would hold steady, "your fever didn't break until nearly seven this morning."

"It was very high, wasn't it?" he asked, his forehead wrinkling as if trying to remember what had happened all night.

"Very," I whispered, "and – and it rose so fast there was nothing I could do. I don't know what was on that knife but I've never seen anyone get such a dangerously high fever so quickly."

"How high?"

"106 before it finally broke," I sighed softly, the horrible night's event replaying over and over in my mind.

Holmes was silent, his eyes downcast.

"I am sorry, Watson," he said after a moment, his thin fingers nervously picking at the coverlet.

"For what?"

"For – for scaring you so," he replied, finally looking up at me, "I really had no intention of getting into that fight."

"I should _hope_ you don't make a habit of antagonizing gangs of knife-wielding sailors!" I exclaimed.

He gave a dry laugh at my sarcasm but then his manner reverted to something more serious.

"But still, Watson, I am sorry. Lachlan said something to me last night just after I was stabbed that made me think very deeply about how foolish I was, and I promise you – I promise you that I shall endeavor to not let it happen again."

I was curious as to what that was that our client could have said to my friend, but I refrained as always from pressing Holmes for personal details.

"I shall hold you to that promise, the next time you want to go gadding about alone," I warned him, straightening out the tangled blanket he had been picking at.

He grinned, a little tiredly, but it was still his old self. I took a long breath and met his grin with a small answering one of my own.

Our comfortable tête-à-tête was interrupted by Lachlan poking his head in the room and asking if we wanted breakfast.

I laughed aloud – I had completely forgotten the man! He grinned at our expressions and disappeared into the sitting room, returning in a moment with a tray.

"I have to say, Mr. Lachlan, that we probably should be splitting whatever fee we will get for this case with you, for you seem to be doing your share of the work," Holmes said as the man handed me the tray.

Lachlan's blue eyes danced merrily.

"Got to give that blessed landlady of yours a break, gentl'men. She's a real woman, that one! I have to say, I am rather surprised she 'asn't tossed the both of you out on your ears by now!"

I snickered as I poured the coffee, for the same thought had crossed my mind more than once over the years.

"Lachlan, won't you stay for breakfast?" Holmes asked, glancing at me.

"No, no, gentlemen, I must be shoving off –"

"Oh, come along, Lachlan," I said, handing him a cup of coffee, "you need to tell Holmes what you discovered about the _Friesland_ last night, anyhow."

Holmes sat straight up in the bed, forgetting about his injury, and I nearly dropped the coffee pot when I heard his choked cry of pain as it made its presence felt harshly.

"Lie still, you bleedin' idiot!" Lachlan barked sharply before I could remonstrate with my friend.

"My thoughts exactly," I agreed, glaring meaningfully at Holmes. He made an immature face at me and turned his attention back to Lachlan.

The man went on to detail over our excellent breakfast what little he knew about the _Friesland_ and what he had found out about her in the course of the last night during his search for the men who had attacked Holmes. It was not much information, but combined with what they were now discussing that they had learnt in the pub, it seemed a fairly solid lead.

Holmes was firing questions at the man with a rapidity that amazed me, considering how weak he had to be feeling, and I myself was barely keeping my eyes open, coffee or no coffee. I had not slept at all last night other than that one hour before Lachlan had shown up with Holmes, and I was physically and emotionally drained completely.

I did not realize they had stopped talking until I became aware that there had been a minute or two of silence, and I hastily jerked my head up and opened my eyes to see both men looking at me, Lachlan with amusement and Holmes with fondness.

I glared at both of them, daring them to make fun of me.

"Go to bed, Watson," Holmes said gently.

"Wake me in three hours, Holmes," I mumbled sleepily, stifling a yawn, "I shall have to recheck that dressing for infection by no later than twelve. And Lachlan – you were up all night as well, make sure you get some sleep before you go back to your work."

My muddled brain having performed the necessary medical instructions, it now proceeded to shut down rapidly.

I was nearly out on my feet by this time, so I did not hear the seaman's response nor did I really care at that moment about anything other than getting to my bed upstairs, which suddenly seemed very far away.

"Oh, Watson?" I heard Holmes's voice behind me, and I turned, rubbing my eyes clear.

"Yes, Holmes?"

"Thank you, my dear fellow," he said simply, flashing me a warm smile.

I managed a tired grin in return, relieved in the extreme that he appeared to be fine after such a dreadful night, and stumbled up the stairs to my room; not even bothering to turn down the covers before falling on the bed in an exhausted deep sleep, content in the knowledge that all was right again.

For the immediate present, at any rate.


	9. Join the Binnacle List

Chapter 9: "Join the Binnacle List"

Binnacle list: A ship's sick list given to the officer on watch, bearing the names of the sailors too ill to report for duty.

_**Holmes:**_

Watson stumbled out of the room and off toward the stairs, obviously exhausted by his efforts throughout the long sleepless night.

Lachlan watched him go and then turned to back to face me.

"A good man, your Doctor."

I nodded, listening to my poor Watson's slow footsteps on the stairs, "Sometimes I wonder just what I have done to deserve such a friend."

"Copper-bottomed." Lachlan said with a small smile.

"What?"

"The Doctor…he's what we would call copper-bottomed, something to be relied upon, genuine. In earlier days of the navy the hulls of the ships were coated with copper plates."

I laughed and took another sip of coffee, grateful for its warmth and stimulant. The fever and loss of blood must have taken a great toll indeed, for I could not recall ever being so tired, or so weak.

Lachlan noted my weariness, his perceptive eyes catching mine.

"How do ye feel?" he asked.

"I would feel a good deal worse if you had not stepped in…I am sorry for the confusion of last night, I did not know who had been following when I tripped you up. I…uh…I would like to thank you. You saved my life, and Watson quite a bit a grief."

"Only after you caused it," the seaman accused. "You've promised to look into this affair for me, Holmes, and I intend to keep you alive until you have."

I took another drink a trifle nervously, for I was not used to small talk with anyone other than Watson. And the seaman did have a propensity for speaking openly and honestly, and I was neither of those things.

I turned the conversation onto a more comfortable topic.

"Have you actually sailed on the _Friesland_?"

"No." Lachlan muttered, "But I have heard of her, a new thing she is, a beauty. All fresh paint and shiny stovepipes. The Lansing paid a pretty penny for her, you can be sure."

He countered with a question of his own.

"I know you are not in the habit of sharing your insights while on a case, Holmes, but do you have any idea who's behind it yet?"

I shook my head and settled against the pillow. It had only been two days and yet it felt like an age ago that I had sat through that cursed operetta with Watson.

"I have not enough data; I hoped that the samples might give me a bit more, but I have not had time to analyze them yet. I might have deduced something from the man you brought in this morning had he not slipped away."

Lachlan chuckled softly.

"_Bolted_ more like, didn't want to risk staying here a moment longer with the Doctor…curse him…if he had kept his temper…"

"Watson?" I asked, sitting up further and wincing as the movement pulled at the stitches in my side.

The seaman cast me a concerned glance but was good enough not to mention it.

"Aye, your Doctor. I would hate to get in between him and you, if you were in bad straits. He frightened the cove half to death. _And_ he's got a fierce fist. Copper-bottomed, Mr. Holmes, that's what he is."

I nodded and lapsed into silence, gripping the mug and wishing I had my pipe. It was proving to be an elusive case, and far more dangerous than I had first supposed. It would be better for all three of us if I could bring it to a quick end.

But I had no data! The possibility of a rival line was abolished by the number of shipping lines involved, nor could it be a separate party preying solely on ships - for only the Lansing had been attacked so far. and it was obvious that the Lansing was not in financial straits either if it could afford to keep up a ship like the _Friesland_.

The _Friesland_. The barkeep's comments of the night before came back to me, and I went over them again and again in my head.

Why the _Friesland_. Why would that particular ship be marked for trouble next?

I focused on Lachlan again; he had proven remarkably observant in the past, perhaps he had noticed something.

But when I asked, he sighed and shook his head ruefully.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes, I can't recall anything. Not off the top of my head anyway…but…"

He paused and reached into his belt, drawing out a cheap-looking bowie knife.

He handed it to me. "Got that off the cove what stabbed ye, careful, it's sharper than it looks. I pricked myself on it earlier."

I took the thing and examined it. It was old and stained and on the blade was an amount of rust and dried blood. Apparently the owner did not feel the need to care for his equipment. It was little wonder that my wound had developed an infection, not that I was familiar with such things as fevers.

There was a chance I might gain some data from the blade. I was fairly confident I could break down and identify the substances on…

An unwanted yawn broke my musings and I covered my mouth with my hand too late.

Lachlan smiled, took the knife from me, and laid it on the dresser.

"I think you should follow the Doctor's advice, Mr. Holmes, and try to rest."

For once I was in no mind to argue and I allowed myself to settle back onto the pillows. I could barely focus, my mind as muddled as though I had been given a sedative.

"What of yourself?" I asked, for Lachlan had gotten no more rest than either Watson or I, and his eyes were shadowed.

"Seamen like myself get used to little sleep," he said, "and someone will have to wake Dr. Watson when it is time to change your bandages."

He was getting to his feet as he spoke, but his shoulders were slumped and it made me feel somewhat guilty, knowing that it was on my behalf, and the fault of my own clumsiness that he had gone the night without sleep.

"Your work at the cartography shop." I muttered, as sleep invaded my mind.

Lachlan smiled again as he went to the door.

"Oh, Harry's a goodun, he doesn't mind me skivin' off as I'm not a regular worker."

I smiled in response.

"The sofa in the sitting room is comfortable enough, Mr. Lachlan."

The sailor nodded and slipped through the entrance.

"Then I'll just kip out here for a bit, Mr. Holmes. Call me if you are needful of anything."

My eyes were closed before the door clicked shut.

_**Lachlan:**_

My eyes were heavy and my head pounding by the time I finally allowed myself to fall onto the couch in the sitting room.

I was unusually tired, my limbs ached. The efforts last night must have cost me more than I realized. But a few hours rest would set me to rights.

I glanced at the clock on the mantle; it was half past eight, two and a half hours until the Doctor would need to check the wound. I would rest until then, and keep one ear open.

My leaden head hit the cushions and I closed my eyes at last, glad that there was a moment of peace at least.

The room had not changed when I opened my eyes again….but I had.

A glance at the clock told me I had been sleeping less than an hour, but I did not feel rested - if anything, I was more tired.

And hot…I was terribly hot. A glass of brandy would be wonderful, and might help me sleep, and stop the ache in my head that had seemingly doubled as I slept.

I levered myself forward off the couch and was alarmed by my own sluggish movements. I found myself holding onto the edge of the couch as I made my way to the sideboard.

I took hold of the decanter and my hand shook so badly that it slipped from my hand and tipped onto the cupboard, flooding it with brandy.

Something was wrong. I clutched my head and swayed where I stood. The room seemed very hot and small…I had to get help.

My thoughts became fuzzy as I turned towards the door towards the stairs. The Doctor – whatever was wrong, he would help.

But my legs suddenly buckled and I fell forward onto the carpet. The world spun around me, I could feel the smooth wood beneath my cheek…or was that above it?

I levered myself to my knees and tried to crawl forward, the door was there, just beyond my reach. The doorknob glinted before me, I touched it with my fingertips, felt its cool metallic surface…than I fell again and this time I did not strike the floor…I sank into a black unending sea.

_**Holmes:**_

I awoke, still tired, but feeling somewhat stronger than I had before. The soreness of the wound on my side was still present, but it was not as sharp as before.

Sunlight streamed in through the window, and from its angle I realized it must be nearly twelve. Watson and Lachlan must have been far more tired than either of them had supposed for Watson had missed his appointment of changing the dressings on the wound at eleven. Not that I minded, I had little doubt that the infection was well under control.

I had been lying in bed for very nearly twelve hours, and the lethargy was getting to my limbs. I was seized by the sudden desire to stretch them and see just how much of my strength I had lost. I tossed back the covers and slowly sat up, hissing between my teeth as the movement tightened the stitches. Watson did do them rather tightly.

The bandaging held well enough, firm and sure as always when fashioned by my dear Boswell. And I was able to swing my legs over the side and get to my feet.

I swayed and clutched at the bedstead as an attack of dizziness hit me and my vision blurred. After a moment it passed and with one hand on my side and the other braced against the wall I was able to make my way to the door, snatching my most comfortable dressing gown on the way.

I paused after swinging it open. Lachlan was not asleep on the sofa as I had thought he would be; he must have had some business to do after all…it was unusual, not at all in character for him.

Another attack of dizziness came and as I clutched at the nearby bookshelf I began to rethink my decision of rising so soon - for once Watson was right…perhaps if I sat down for a moment.

I pushed forward towards my chair by the mantle…and froze as familiar figure came into my view.

There, by the door, lay Lachlan…facedown…unmoving.

Adrenaline rushed and pumped through my veins, lending me strength…and I hurried forward. Had he been attacked? Not likely, with the door closed and him lying so near to it.

I knelt beside him. "Lachlan."

I put a hand on his shoulder to turn him over…and pulled it away with a gasp.

There was an incredible heat emanating from beneath the cloth of his shirt. He was burning, and the material was wet with sweat.

I took a firmer hold and turned him over. "Lachlan!"

There was no response, his eyes were shut, his face flushed, he was shaking slightly, shivering, his fair hair standing out from the red skin.

He was in the bouts of a fever.

"Watson!"

I stumbled to my feet, moving despite another attack of dizziness, and stepped round the fallen form of the sailor to yank open the door.

"WATSON!"

My voice boomed in the stairwell and for a moment I feared that he could not hear me…there was little chance I would be able to make it up those stairs, not with the sense of vertigo already upon me.

"**WATSON**!"

There was a scuffling from the upstairs room, and rapid footsteps as my Boswell pounded out of his bedchamber. His voice sounded sharp with alarm.

"Holmes!? Are you all right?!"

He appeared at the head of the stairs, pale and visibly shaken…and I would have cursed myself for worrying him further had not the situation been so dire. He _had_ been asleep, his hair ruffled and still in clothing which he must not have bothered to change from.

"Holmes?! What is it - what's happened?"

He looked at me, standing upright and relatively unharmed, and the worry changed to a weary scowl.

"What in heaven's name are you doing out of bed!?"

I shook my head in irritation, eliciting more dizziness which I ignored.

"Never mind, Watson, get down here – I need you."

The urgency and fear must have been clear in my voice for his scowl became concerned once again, and he began to descend the steps.

I went back into the room and leaned against the dining table, trying to curb my vertigo. Watson entered, and froze as I had done. His already pale face drained of color.

"My God!" he breathed, a prayer rather than a curse.

He knelt beside Lachlan, felt his head, recoiled. And as always in the face of the sick or the wounded, his medical training and staunch personality took immediate control.

"Holmes, a cushion from the couch…quickly."

He took the pillow and slid it beneath Lachlan's head, feeling the man's pulse and breathing. Then he was on his feet, striding rapidly into my bedroom then back with his medical kit in hand, pulling it open, drawing out the thermometer…checking Lachlan's temperature.

He went very still when he read it, and cast me a fearful glance.

"The same?" I asked, and he nodded, running a hand through his mussed hair uneasily.

"104.5. Holmes, when did he leave your room?"

"Shortly after you, he showed no signs that anything was wrong."

Watson swallowed at the knowledge that Lachlan had been lying ill for two or three hours without aid. I could see the guilt settle into his expression and I shared in it.

Then Watson shook it off and stripped off Lachlan's shirt and coat before levering the sailor up into his arms. Struggling under the weight and awkwardness of the hold, he carried him to the couch, made sure his head was supported, then went once again to my bedroom, emerging with the basin. He refilled it with fresh cool water and gathered another set of cloths from the linen cupboard. He set these on the table beside Lachlan and then turned to me.

"Holmes, are you strong enough…can you help?"

I smiled in what I hoped was a reassuring manner. Watson did not want a repeat of last night.

"Of course, old fellow."

Watson returned the smile shakily then drew up a chair, took hold of my arm and helped me to sit in it, handing me one of the icy cold compresses.

"We must bring it down," he said, and his voice quavered though his hands were steady as he applied his own compress to Lachlan's chest, soaking the red skin.

The seaman moaned, and his shivering increased.

"He acts as though he is freezing." I said, hesitating - I had never aided a sick man before.

"Holmes, trust me, I'm a doctor. Now do as I say and cool him down." Watson spoke rather sharply, his fear making him stern.

I sighed and pressed the cloth against Lachlan's forehead, and the icy water cascaded over his face.

He moaned again and gave a violent shudder, his eyelids flickered and opened halfway. The gaze beneath was glazed and dull. He tried to push Watson's hand away but Watson caught his wrist and pushed it back.

"Try to talk to him, Holmes." Watson said, as he took the rag from me, re-soaked it and handed it back.

"Me?" I asked, "Why…"

"You have a masterful voice, it's hard to ignore. See if you can get him to respond."

I was still a little puzzled until I suddenly remembered last night. I had been about to give up the struggle for clinging to a thin thread of existence, too tired to fight any more, when I had heard a strong voice – one I trusted with my very life, pleading frantically with me to not give up, to keep fighting. And I had done so.

I cleared the sudden lump out of my throat and continued to soak the sick man's head with the cool water. Lachlan continued to shiver and it struck me just how vulnerable and ill he was. For the short time I had known him he had proved himself to be a strong and resourceful individual, more than capable…and now…

"Lachlan." I spoke softly and clearly, putting a hand on his shoulder as much in support of myself as of him. "Lachlan, can you hear me?"

Lachlan shook and cringed away from the cloths but showed no sign that my words were having any effect.

I looked to Watson but he did not meet my gaze, his eyes solidly on his task. He only nodded slightly.

"Lachlan. Come on, old man…can you hear me?"

His eyes flickered unseeing, and he muttered something under his breath.

"Good." I exclaimed in slight relief. "Good, Lachlan, say something, old chap, we need you yet."

He groaned and shivered, moving his head restlessly on the cushions. "No…"

Watson gave me an encouraging look, Lachlan had ceased his struggles against the cool cloths, his blond brows furrowing.

"Come on, Lachlan, we're here, old man."

The seaman took a breath, much slower and deeper than his previous ones.

"No." the word escaped his throat in a half sob and he had clenched his eyes shut.

I took his hand in my own. "Hold on, Lachlan. Stay with us. It's all right."

"No," he shook his head, took another breath. "No…s'not…she…she didn't want…"

"Didn't what?" the words had gripped Watson's attention and he watched as I spoke. "Didn't what, Lachlan?"

"Want me to go…I shouldn'…I shouldn'…" his jaw and his hand clenched. "If I hadn' then it wouldn've happened…I would've…"

He was delirious, reliving some trauma from his past…I met Watson's look and the answer there was clear. Whatever it was, it was none of our business. Not if Lachlan had not seen fit to share it before.

Odd how this man that neither of us had known existed…had somehow become a respected friend in so very short a time.

"Its all right, Lachlan," I said gripping his hand. The sick man turned his head towards me slightly but said nothing more, only moaned.

Watson leant over and took his temperature again. After a moment he looked at the reading and then at me, his face betraying a lurking terror that I suddenly realized he must have felt last night at the possibility of losing me.

"105," he whispered through clenched teeth. "Holmes, keep talking. One more degree and it could be fatal. I have to concentrate on this treatment – you keep speaking to him."

"What about?" I asked, feeling more helpless than I ever had – was this what Watson had been feeling like all night long? I had been worse off than Lachlan was yet. What I had put my dear friend through!

"It doesn't _matter_ what, Holmes," Watson said desperately, "just be forceful – don't let him give up – keep telling him to fight it, _order_ him to stay with us, demand it. You have to get through to him, to be a lifeline to his wandering mind!"

"Like you did to me," I whispered, remembering the dreadful night once again.

"Like I did to you," he returned in a choked voice, swallowing down hard on the emotions I could perceive playing across his face.

Then he bent again to his task, face grim. And I continued to talk to Lachlan…praying silently that we had not discovered him too late.


	10. Don't Give Up the Ship

Chapter 10: "Don't Give Up the Ship"

_**Lachlan**_

The rope burned my hands and the sun scorched my face. Rivulets of sweat ran down my bare back and my feet padded in puddles on the deck as I pulled at the rope.

High above me the white sail rose like the wing of a bird to block out the sky and the blazing sun. My muscles ached with the effort, but it was a good ache. Like the satisfied exhaustion one feels at the end of a task.

I bent to tie off my line but was interrupted when a sudden gust of wind caught the sailcloth and the rope was nearly tugged from my hands, my arms were pulled violently above my head, my slight frame did not have near enough weight to hold it down. I was overbalancing.

A hand caught hold of my shoulder and pulled me back steadying me.

"Hold on there, lad…steady Will."

I turned to grin at a man with a rough face browned and weathered like driftwood from years at sea, than the sun blazed in my eyes and I lost sight of him.

It was scorching me…too hot…far too hot.

"Lachlan."

A voice echoed in my ears and a strong, thin hand gripped my own.

"Can you hear me Lachlan?"

I groaned and tried to turn away, it was too bright, too hot. A second hand felt my forehead, adding to the head and I objected, trying to wiggle away from it.

"It's rising. I'll get more water."

It was dark now, the sky a mass of roiling, black clouds, as alive as the sea beneath them…rain lashed at my face and ran under the collar of my coat. The deck swayed beneath my feet and I had trouble keeping my footing on the slippery wood. I gripped the cold steel railing and pulled myself forward.

There up ahead was the light of the bridge, I took another step against the howling wind, it ripped the hat from my head. Communications were out, the engines flooded…I had to get there, they had to be told.

Without warning a wave rose up on the side of the ship and washed over me, driving me down into the steel siding, I struck my head and flinched at the resounding ache.

The raincoat was useless now, the clothes had been soaked beneath. I was freezing, shivering in the frigid air. I tried to struggle to my feet but the ship pitched again and another wave hit, forcing me back down.

I gasped for breath, and tried to wrap my arms around myself for warmth, but they were pinned by the weight of the water. I began to shiver violently, wave after wave of icy water washed over me and the rain continued to lash.

"No!" I railed against it, struggling weakly.

"Lachlan…Lachlan, lie still, old man, its all right."

"Cold," I moaned, shivering, my teeth chattering.

Another wave of water washed over my chest as if there were no coat or tamarack there to protect the skin. I tried to brush it away, but my wrists were restrained…not by water but by hands.

"Hold on, Lachlan." this was a new voice, softer than the first, more kind. "I'll get you through this…just hold on."

More water, it cascaded over me, I shuddered and sobbed, "Stop."

The kind voice took a shaky breath and the first sounded close to my head. "I'm sorry Lachlan, we can't stop. You'll feel better, lie still. Good man…are you all right, Watson?"

"Fine…keep talking, Holmes."

The cold and the insistent voice continued, holding me there for a long time.

Then it was dark and still again, I was seated beside a bed, too weary to get up and stir the dying coals of the fire. I could not leave, not again. If I had not left the first time…

She…my wife…had not wanted me to, had wanted me with her. But the job was a good one, and would give us money enough to get started. Would be enough to let me retire from the sea to a small shop in Portsmouth, where there was a small white cottage at the head of the cliffs.

A sturdy place where the wind whipped in fresh from the sea and the ships passed beneath, a place where the brilliant green of the headland met the soft blue and grays of the water…where the sun seemed to be reborn every morning with brilliant dawns.

The more she spoke of it the more her eyes lit up and her face shone. I would get it for her, I needed to get it for her. So I left.

I put a shaking hand into my pocket and drew forth a battered piece of paper…a telegram.

I crumpled it into a small ball and threw it at the flames where it hissed and spit, for it had been soaked in saltwater when I had received it on the ship. I lowered my head into shaking hands and took a shuddering breath, praying, pleading.

On the bed beside me she lay. So small and thin, an empty shell of the beautiful spirited lass she had been; all dark hair and rosy cheeks, laughing as she danced as light as a fawn on her feet. Her face was sallow and pinched now and her eyes were glazed.

She was still delicate…only now she seemed as though she would break, and the slightest movement hurt her.

She did not have the strength to speak my name. I was too late.

I laid my head on the coverlet beside her, listening to the soft, shallow breathing, holding her small hand gently in mine.

I listened and waited and breathed with her, as though to keep her from what I knew would come.

But it did come, and sometime in the dark, desolate hours of the night she stopped. I cradled my wife in my arms, rocking her back and forth, burying my face in her hair, as I cried bitterly.

_**Holmes**_

"Oh, dear Lord, please no! Lachlan, you can't do this!" Watson's frantic voice rang in my head as he reached over me to shake the seaman firmly. Lachlan's body convulsed with silent sobs and then went limp. "You've got to fight this, Lachlan! Listen to me! You have to help me!"

I shivered at the absolute desperation in my friend's voice – and realized anew what anguish he had to have gone through last night. I drenched the compress in a fresh basin of water and put it on the ailing man's chest and neck as Watson took his temperature again.

His sharp intake of breath told me the results before his trembling words did.

"105.5, Holmes. We don't have much time," he whispered, rubbing a hand across his weary features and slumping down for a moment against the couch, his eyes closed. I had never felt so helpless in all my life as I did then.

Before I could offer any words of encouragement Lachlan began to thrash around abour, almost knocking me off my chair in his mad flailing. In an instant Watson had reanimated and grabbed the flying arms, holding them close to the poor fellow's sides, struggling to keep him under control. Lachlan was strong as an ox, and I quickly moved to help Watson.

"Is this normal for a fever?" I gasped as I fought to still Lachlan's left arm and avoid the blows he was unconsciously dealing.

With a surge of effort Lachlan broke free of my hold and before I could grab his flailing arm it struck Watson on the side of the face. My friend gritted his teeth, set his jaw, and ducked as he gripped the arm once again.

"Yes!" he panted, wrestling the arm down, "you did it yourself more than once last night – look out!"

I dodged a flying arm instinctively, but my mind was on what Watson had said – I had done this as well? How horrible it must have been for him!

Watson maintained his hold on the sailor, talking continuously in a calm, soothing voice, though it held a distinct tremor. And after a moment the man quieted with a soft moan, looking at us with eyes that obviously were not seeing us.

My Boswell was breathing hard with the struggle, and I was not much better – I was so confoundedly weak from that accursed fever myself that I was little more than useless.

Watson took the man's temperature for perhaps the dozenth time as I put another towel on the sufferer's forhead. As he withdrew the instrument, his already white face turned ashen in desperation.

"105.8," he quavered, snatching the towel from me, "more water – now, Holmes. Hurry!"

I grabbed the pitcher and weaved unsteadily as I made my way toward the door, colliding into the sideboard as the dizziness hit.

"Are you all right!" he called worriedly, not able to leave our patient.

I responded in the affirmative and made my way to the bathroom, filled the pitcher, and returned a moment later. Watson was desperately working on the man, trying to get him to respond, but Lachlan was only muttering incoherently in his delirium.

For another half hour we tried to bring the fever down, but Watson's expression was one of heartbroken failure as he yet again, read the thermometer. I felt a knot form in my stomach.

"106.1," my friend moaned in despair, "we – we're losing him, Holmes! He can't live long with a fever that high and still climbing!"

"We can't lose him," I gasped, "I didn't die! Why should he?"

"Lachlan," Watson stated firmly, ignoring me and bending over the barely moving form of the seaman, "listen to me. I said listen to me, sailor. You are NOT going to do this. Do you hear me? Don't you _dare_ give up the ship, Lachlan!"

I was somewhat surprised at Watson's choice of words…even a writer such as he did not was not prone to the use of nautical terms.

To my astonishment the waxen color of the man's face tinged a delicate shade of pink – Watson's word choice must have struck some chord in the man's delirious brain. It wasn't obscure…it was brilliant!

"Keep on the water, Holmes! Lachlan! Listen to me! Keep fighting!"

I pressed another towel onto the man's chest as Watson kept up the steady barrage of forceful talking, marveling at my dear friend's inner strength. Indeed, I knew that were it not for that voice guiding me back from that dark path of my own mind, I might not have made it through the last night.

"Lachlan – don't do this!" Watson gasped as Lachlan's breathing began to falter and grow shallow, "you can't give up now! Don't give up the ship, Lachlan – we need you!"

I felt more and more helpless as the man seemed to only drift further and further away from any semblance of consciousness, and I could see Watson begin to shake as the despair of the situation struck him, his hands tremoring.

A wild idea came to me, and I leaned closer to the sailor's face to snap out a command, hoping my voice would be more effective than Watson's, all the while giving the seaman a good shake.

"Midshipman! This is your captain, at attention! Haul up there Mr. Lachlan, we cannot spare the time for you to be lubberly!" I ordered stiffly, in as forceful a voice as I could manage.

To my shock, the man's breathing quickened, he started to move feebly, and I heard gasp of excitement from Watson.

"Keep talking, Holmes – he's responding to you! Keep at it – we only have mere minutes now before this becomes deadly," he said, drenching the towels again and applying them to the man's fevered form.

I obeyed and began to fire commands at the poor man, using every nautical and sailing term I knew of, trying tobreak through that barrier of illness. For probably five minutes I railed on without stopping, as Watson continued to drench him again and again in the cold water.

My heart leapt into my throat as Lachlan suddenly went limp under Watson's hands.

"No!"

Watson's pained cry sent a pang through my own heart as he fumbled for a pulse – then I saw his eyes widen in disbelief, and he put his hand on the seaman's forehead, holding it there for a few seconds.

He slid down to the floor in a limp heap, resting his head on the side of the couch.

"It broke, Holmes," I heard his faint whisper, nearly inaudible in his intense relief.

_**Lachlan:**_

Once again it was peaceful, a great difference to the turmoil that had surrounded me only a moment before. I was on a ship, not the large steamers I was used to, but a light sailing ship from my earlier experiences as a lad.

Cool, salt-laden air breezed past me and I took a great breath of it, looking off into the calm waters, up at the sky that, in the absence of a sun or a moon, had become a dazzling map of stars.

I did not know why I was here or even the name of the small craft. But I felt very much a part of it. It promised a new voyage to lands unseen and places undiscovered. And the boyish enthusiasm that had first taken me to sea rose again in my chest.

I felt content – safe – certain that all was right, assured that wherever this little ship was headed I knew how to steer her.

The creaking of the wood and the slight sound of the waves lapping at the hull of the ship lulled me into a state of restfulness. I closed my eyes, leaning back against the solid wood of the mast.

Than a voice broke in on my thoughts, forceful and commanding. A voice that a captain would use to command his seamen.

It was familiar somehow…and I had the strangest inclination to follow it. I turned to find its source, and found myself trapped behind a pair of leaden eyelids.

_**Holmes**_

My breath caught in my throat, so great was the wave of relief that washed over me at Watson's pronouncement, and I put my own hand on the man's forehead to assure myself of the fact. Watson was right – he was no longer burning to the touch.

I could see that Watson was shaking from the close call, and I gingerly got down beside him, wincing as the stitches in my side pulled again, glancing at the clock – it was six in the evening!

"Are you all right?" I asked softly.

He nodded, not meeting my gaze.

I was about to say something more when Lachlan moved above us. In an instant Watson was back on his feet, bending over the patient.

"Lachlan. Lachlan, can you hear me?"

"Doctor…" the seaman's voice was hoarse and softer than usual. It cracked with the effort and strain of what he had just gone through.

"Yes, old chap. You need to stay quiet now."

"I…" the man's hand twitched weakly as he struggled to open his eyes, and Watson took it gently, patting the man's shoulder in a reassuring fashion.

Lachlan's eyes finally flickered open, resting first on Watson with a small smile, and then they slowly traveled up to my worried face and fastened upon me for a long moment.

"I'd surely – hate – to be – a sailor – under a captain – like you, Holmes," he murmured weakly, trying to manage a lopsided grin at me.

I could have shouted with relief at the knowledge that he had indeed heard me, but I contented myself with patting his shoulder and speaking quietly.

"You heard the Doctor, Lachlan. You must rest now," I said gently.

"Never – had much stock – in doctors," the man's voice was trailing off now.

Watson chuckled, very unsteadily, and got up to pour a glass of water, mixing a powder into it. He slipped a gentle arm under the seaman's head and helped him down the contents handing it to me when empty.

Then Watson settled him back on the couch, made sure the pillows were secure under his head, and then went into my room to grab two blankets, spreading them over still form and tucking them in tightly.

"But – think – I'll make – an exception – in yer case," Lachlan finished his previous sentiment, his blue eyes regaining a very faint twinkle behind the exhaustion.

"You're a brave man, Lachlan," my friend said quietly as the seaman's eyelids began to droop with sleep, "and you've put up a good fight. Time to rest now."

"Remember, Doctor…" the seaman's voice trailed off, and he brought himself back with an effort, opening his eyes once more to gaze at my friend's face as Watson bent over him.

"Remember what?" he asked softly.

"Vows – vows made – in storms, Doctor," the man murmured, finally succumbing to the pull of the medicine Watson had administered.

I was puzzled by Lachlan's remark and was about to ask Watson about it as he straightened up at last – when I suddenly had to spring forward and catch him as his legs wobbled and he nearly fell heavily into my arms.

"Watson!"

"I – I'm fine, Holmes," he gasped, rubbing his eyes, "just – just a little limp, that's all."

I pushed him gently down into my armchair, realizing afresh what a horrible strain he had to have been under, pulling first me and then Lachlan from the very brink of the grave, and in such a devastatingly, violent manner. And he had gone through it all alone in my bedroom last night, with no one to help him as we had helped each other with Lachlan just now.

He was still shaking either from the reaction or fatigue, probably both, and I went to my bedroom, feeling none too steady myself actually, and grabbed a blanket for him, returning and wrapping it around his trembling form as he sat there in front of the fire that had died while we worked.

I crouched in front of him, wincing as my painful side protested, putting a strong hand on his arm. He glanced up at me, and I could see the lurking fear darkening his hazel eyes – the horrors of the last day had not yet begun to dissipate from him.

"Well done, old chap," I said simply, at a loss for proper sentiments.

I felt his tense muscles relax under my grip, and he smiled a very tired thank-you.

"I need to redress that wound, Holmes," he said wearily, rubbing his eyes.

"It is perfectly fine, Watson – you did an excellent job the first time," I replied firmly, "you need to rest now as well; you've had a perfectly dreadful time of it."

"I shall not argue with either of those last two statements," he whispered, leaning back in the armchair and huddling down into it wearily.

I was feeling the strain myself of the too-rapid exertions of the afternoon, and I took a few moments as I stood stiffly, to try and regain my equilibrium as my head spun a little. I grasped the mantel until the dizziness passed, and then I looked back down at Watson.

He was curled up in my armchair, already fast asleep, wrapped snugly up in the blanket I had put around him.

I allowed my lips to curve upward in a fond smile and I checked both my friend and Lachlan to see that they were resting comfortably. Lachlan shifted a little under my touch but did not waken; Watson was completely dead to the world, apparently.

Then I staggered off to my room for a badly needed rest myself. That is, if my mind would slow down from its racing as it was now. Perhaps my time would be better spent thinking about the case instead of sleeping. Besides, one of the men in the sitting room might need me upon waking.

Yes, I would spend the next couple of hours in some deep thought.


	11. Calm After the Storm

Chapter 11: "Calm After the Storm"

_**Holmes:**_

I sighed and began to refill my pipe. It had been over an hour, the sun had well and truly sunk behind the landscape of the now quiet London, but I had little to show for it.

I had the facts, to be sure, but not enough to construct a solid case.

Ghost ships that vanished with all hands aboard only to reappear a short time later, it was a clever hiding place, right there in plain sight. Had it not been for the sharp eye of a certain seaman than the thing might have gone unnoticed for some time.

But who was hiding it? There was not enough motive…the ships had never been sunk, merely refurbished. But their resale would not be enough to justify the deaths of whole crews; and in some cases, passengers.

It was possible that the Lansing line was shipping some commodity previously unknown, and for that reason the ships were being pirated…no, for if it was smuggling then who would know to seize the ships?

No, there was a deeper motive…and I could not fathom it.

I lit the pipe with a sigh. Lachlan's vocabulary was having an adverse affect on my own. Another day in his company and my speech would be riddled with nautical terms; though it would be worth it, considering the character of the man…and the strength. He had pulled through that fever quite remarkably. To think that I had been in the throes of the very same illness, and that Watson had faced it alone!

I shuddered and took a long draught from my pipe.

The motive...money alone could not be the motive…but why else would you attack a ship? And why only the Lansing line, which was by no means the wealthiest or on top of the competition; which ruled out the possibility of sullying their reputation, which had already happened.

No…not money or competition…then what…personal revenge? Convenience?

A thought pricked in my mind. If the ships were being pirated and disguised, then why had the Lansing not bought back several of its own ships?

I smiled as the thought fell smoothly into place. That was the reason that the Lansing had been so eager to keep Lachlan out of it. They were trying to protect their reputation…they already knew about the ships.

In fact, since they had not purchased the ships it was probable that they themselves had resold them to try and regain some of the profits they had lost along with the ship. And they had to have lost them…there was no other explanation. Not all the ships were being resold, for only a few had been recovered after the attacks. And they were indeed being attacked, for the deaths of the sailors could not be accidental, not when the incident had been repeated so many times.

But what kind of attack? One that left the ship undamaged, and drifting for the Lansing to find...

I lapsed into thought, going through numerous scenarios in my head and discarding them one by one.

I had very nearly fallen asleep when I heard the clock from the sitting room chime the hour. Ten. It was late. I laid my pipe aside and rose to my feet. I would take a quick turn around the sitting room, just to stretch my limbs and make certain that all was well.

It was, quiet and still, broken only by the breathing of the two sleeping men. I paused over Lachlan, took his pulse and felt his brow. My worries were boundless; his heart beats were strong and even, in fact he looked virtually unaffected by the fever…he could easily be sleep-

I froze as another thought struck me, and the confused pieces of the puzzle fell neatly into place.

It could not be coincidence that Lachlan and I had both acquired the same erratic and bizarre fever. It had to have come from the knife and the man wielding the knife had gone after me because I had been questioning about the Lansing line.

An exotic fever…one that incapacitated a man almost instantly, and was transmitted totally undetected…would be just the way to take over a ship without damage. Much in the way it had taken Lachlan without an outward visible mark.

A slight murmur drew my attention and I turned to see Watson, his brow furrowed, moving restlessly on the armchair. And I realized just how uncomfortable sleeping on an armchair would be.

"Watson." I gripped his shoulder and shook it gently. "Watson."

He sighed and turned his head. I shook harder…he was far too heavy a sleeper.

"Watson, wake up, old fellow."

His eyes flickered open, blinked at the darkness, and then he looked up at me.

"Holmes." He mumbled, quite bleary with sleep and fatigue. "What is it?"

I laughed softly. "I think that you should head to bed, Watson."

"Bed?" he glanced round, realized where he was, and surged to his feet, stumbling slightly. I put out a hand to steady him as he spoke. "Lachlan – is he –"

"He is fine, my dear Watson." I reassured him as he rubbed his eyes wearily, one hand gripping the chair to steady himself.

"Good," he sighed rather shakily…he really had gone through an enormous strain.

"Bed, Watson." I said, and he glared at me only half awake. I doubted he would even remember this conversation in the morning.

"I shall rest, I swear. But you will be no good to Lachlan or myself if you collapse of exhaustion, and we need you more than ever, old chap. You've done enough…go to bed."

He glared at me for a moment, and then with a sigh of resignation and a heavy nod he turned and stumbled off towards his room.

"'Good night, old fellow." I called after him, checking on Lachlan one last time.

I heard a soft "Good night, Holmes" and then his weary footsteps upon the stair.

I retired to my room with a smile.

Copper-bottomed indeed.

_**Watson**_

I had woken up that morning with the worst headache I had had in many a month, and in consequence I was rather in an ill temper.

The strain of the last two days and the off schedule I had been on brought with it a bad stress headache, and I stuffed a packet of light pain reliever in my pocket before going down to the sitting room, intending to mix it into my coffee. My consequent sluggishness would be put down by Holmes and our client to being tired, as we all must be at this point.

My friend and Lachlan were already up, and I was very glad to see that both of their faces had returned to their natural complexion, and they both looked a sight better than when I had last seen them. And Lachlan appeared to have no lasting damage from the effects of his fever – he had even been able to be up and about a bit, as evidenced by the fact that he had his shirt on now.

Both men were drinking a pot of coffee Mrs. Hudson must have prepared, and as I sat wearily down in my chair Holmes poured a cup of coffee, added milk and a lump of sugar as he knew I took it, stirred it, and handed it to me.

"I am sorry for giving you so much bother yesterday, Doctor," Lachlan said, glancing apologetically at me.

"There's no need to apologize, old man. Not your fault," I replied, stifling a yawn. As Holmes turned a teasing gaze upon me, I felt my face flush.

"Really, Watson, how can you still be sleepy after fourteen hours of slumber?" Holmes teased gently.

"You try pulling two men out of the grave in the same 24 hour period and see how alert you feel afterwards," I declared, downing the rest of my coffee in one gulp, "especially when they are as stubborn as the two of you apparently are!"

Holmes laughed again, and I glared at him a little testily. Our small battle of wills was interrupted by the voice of the sailor.

"I should really be shovin' off, gentlemen –"

"You will do no such thing," I replied sternly, not skipping a beat, "you are in no fit state to leave here for at least another couple of hours."

"Doctor, I am perfectly seaworthy –"

"I shall be the judge of that. Sit down, Lachlan," I ordered, looking at the man warningly, telling him not to press his luck with me this morning.

"I recognize that tone, Lachlan – you'd better humor him," Holmes said slyly, "he's rather a bear before breakfast, as you can see."

I turned my gaze back to Holmes, and I was meanly a little glad to see him fidget a trifle uneasily under my warning glare.

But I was in no mood for mind games, and I rubbed a hand uneasily across my eyes as a stab of pain attacked my temples. Holmes's barbed sarcasm usually did not bother me in the least, but it seemed a trifle overbearing this morning due to the pain in my head.

Finally I drained my coffee cup and walked behind Holmes's chair to my desk. I refilled the cup with coffee and the medicine, turning my back away from Holmes so he would not know that I was taking a pain reliever.

Somehow he noticed, however, and as I finished mixing it I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked into a pair of worried grey eyes. I sighed ruefully.

"Why in the world do you have to be so confounded observant, Holmes?"

He did not laugh at my attempt at humor but asked me if I was feeling quite well.

"Just a headache, Holmes, I am fine," I reassured him, and I was not a little pleased to see the amount of concern in his face.

I could tell by his manner last night that this business with Lachlan had shaken him, knowing how close to death he had come himself and what I had had to go through to bring him back.

I downed the coffee in one gulp, hoping the pain reliever would take effect quickly, for I could tell by Holmes's manner that he had done a deal of thinking and we were sure to be back in action today, against my better judgment.

Holmes's hand tightened on my shoulder and he was about to say something when Mrs. Hudson arrived with our breakfast, laid it quietly, and left, and I realized suddenly that I had not eaten in nearly twenty-four hours, so hectic had the last day's events been. Lachlan had already headed to the table, and Holmes pushed me gently in that direction as well.

We had not yet even seated ourselves before there was a rushing of little feet in the hall, and the lad Alfie came plowing into the sitting room amidst Mrs. Hudson's shrieks from downstairs. The boy came to a screeching halt in the room, and then launched himself at Holmes before I could stop him.

"Mr. 'Olmes! Yer all roight!" the boy whooped, hugging my friend's thin form tightly.

I saw Holmes's face turn white as the boy unwittingly got too near his injury, and I quickly moved to disentangle the lad; but he stopped me with a shake of the head, an odd softness coming over his face as he gently pushed the boy back and ruffled his ginger hair in an uncharacteristic gesture.

"Yes, my lad, I am perfectly fine."

"The Doctor said that bloke 'ad tried ta kill yoo! Me an' the boys went ev'rywhere, an' we couldn't find no sign o' the filthy little…"

I stared in abject shock as the enraged boy let forth a string of expletives that even Lachlan stared at – how had that child learnt such language?

I realized my mouth was gaping open as the sailor started laughing.

"Never heard a lad what could give lessons to a seaman like meself," the man chuckled as Holmes rather awkwardly tried to calm the wound-up little Irregular.

"Oi sure am sorry, Mr. 'Olmes, Doctor, we couldn' find no trace o' the bloke," the boy said sadly, hanging his head and scuffing at the carpet with the toe of a ragged little shoe.

"It's all right, Alfie, you did your best," I said soothingly, going over to my desk and retrieving a half a crown from my wallet, "and Mr. Holmes and I appreciate it very much. Would you like a scone?"

"Oi, ta Doctor!" the lad said, eagerly pocketing the coin and then stuffing his other pockets full of our landlady's treats.

"Oi sure am glad ta see yer all roight, Mr. 'Olmes," the boy said, turning back to us after grabbing the sweets.

"Thank you, lad. Give my regards to all the rest of the Irregulars," Holmes said with a smile.

"Right, sir. Mornin', gents."

Little Alfie took off with vigor down the steps, loudly arguing with Mrs. Hudson over his energetic whooping, and a moment later we heard the front door slam.

"Holmes, the wound – are you – "

"No, Watson, it's fine, I promise. Just a little rough there for a moment," my friend replied, seating himself at the breakfast table.

I followed suit, rubbing wearily at my eyes – that confounded headache. I was going to be in an extremely bad temper if it did not subside soon. Holmes shot me a worried look as he passed the dishes over to me and Lachlan.

Then Holmes and Lachlan began discussing the symptoms of the unusual fever they had both contracted – strange that they had both gotten it, but I supposed Lachlan had caught it from Holmes. Odd that I had not; but then, I was used to dealing with germs and perhaps had a stronger resistance for them.

I had been listening absently to the conversation, trying to eat something, but my head was pounding so badly I really was not all that hungry. I wished fervently for the next fifteen minutes to pass so that the medicine would take effect and the pain would subside.

Holmes shot me a look that told me he had observed the fact that I had eaten next to nothing, which I ignored for the moment, finally pushing back my chair and walking over to the couch, putting away the medical instruments that I had been using the night before and that still remained out; I had been too tired to clean up last night.

As I straightened up, Lachlan suddenly appeared in front of me and abruptly took the bag out of my startled hands, and then Holmes took me by the arm and pushed me gently into my chair.

"You, my dear Watson, are not going to do _anything_ today," he said sternly, "you have done more work in the last 24 hours than any man should have had to do."

I glared at both of them, for I sensed a conspiracy.

Holmes returned my glare with an inexorable one of his own; and of course, as I always ended up doing, I conceded to his stronger will. Actually, I was rather pleased at his concern, though it really had no foundation; I was merely being testy because of the headache.

"Hmph."

"Not the most brilliant of retorts, Watson."

"I shall leave the sarcasm to the experts such as you, Holmes," I said, allowing some of my irritation to finally leave my tense body as I stretched out in front of the fire, leaning my head against the back of my chair and grinning at my companion.

I saw a look of intense relief flood over his face as he snorted at what he called my pawky sense of humor, and the tension in his face left slightly as he sat cautiously down in his own chair opposite me, motioning Lachlan to the couch.

I recognized the look on my friend's face – now that he was sure I was all right, he was about to inform us of his plans.

We were now going to chart a course to follow in our quest to solve this odd mystery. I hoped very definitely that the rest of this case would not be as dangerous as it had been so far.

How wrong I was.


	12. Tell it to the Marines

Chapter 12: "Tell it to the Marines"

Tell it to the marines: A scornful response to a tall and unbelieved story.

_**Watson**_

Holmes's explanation had been brief and to the point, and did very little to clear up my confusion. He was being confoundedly elusive and my head would have ached anew had I not taken the painkiller.

Lachlan was just as puzzled and cast me a curious glance; I shrugged and moved out of the way as Holmes swept past, throwing on his jacket.

"MRS. HUDSON!" he bellowed as he flung open the door.

I saw Lachlan flinch, and recalled that he was quite as weary as I, this sort of action would do no good to either him or Holmes - who was still recovering, whether he remembered he fact or not.

"Holmes, what in heaven's name?"

"I told you, Watson, we are going to speak to the president of the English branch of the Lansing line."

Holmes thrust a handful of papers at Mrs. Hudson as she came hesitatingly into the room.

"Send these off as soon as the telegraph office is open, thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

Then he spun the other direction, taking Lachlan's jacket from the chair and flinging it to him.

He caught it, barely.

"Lachlan, if you are fit enough I think it would be best if you accompany us, for you are the foremost witness we have. Get your coat, Watson."

I sighed. How he could change from such a limp individual to a fury of energy so quickly?

My thoughts were arrested as my own coat smacked me in the face and fell to the floor as I failed to catch it.

I spun to glare at him "Holmes!"

His face twisted in an unwilling smirk and he picked up his stick and hat from the table.

"Sorry, Watson, but it is best that we get there before the morning rush."

The light streaming through the window indicated to me that the morning rush was already well underway. I sighed, picked up my jacket from the floor, and turned to make certain of Lachlan, who had risen from his place on the couch, a little paler than usual but steady enough on his feet.

Holmes was already at the stairs and here he paused, inconvenienced by the stitches in his side. He considered for a moment, tried a position or two, then began gingerly down them in a sort of sideways shuffle.

I heard Lachlan laugh behind me as I started down and could not help but grin. Holmes cast both of us a glare but continued.

He made it down the stairs without incident and then put his powerful voice to use by calling us a cab. He pulled open the door and waved us in with a flourish.

Lachlan hesitated for a moment, and I got the impression that he was not accustomed to riding in cabs nor on attending such business.

"Come, come, Lachlan, I recall you were not quite so shy in alighting into a cab the evening before last," Holmes said with a smile.

Lachlan laughed at this, shooting him a grin, and climbed in.

"What is this?" I asked, seating myself beside the seaman. Holmes closed the door behind us.

"Let us say, Watson, that a certain reluctant gentleman was relieved of his ride, thanks to our friend's delicate persuasion."

"Ah." I said, watching as Lachlan's face turned a shade darker and he cleared his throat.

"We shall stop by the _Haddock_ to give you a chance to refresh yourself, Lachlan, no doubt the line will be more inclined to listen."

Lachlan nodded and plucked at his shirt, which was still marked by the sweat of his ordeal yesterday.

"I myself would appreciate it, Mr. Holmes. One grows used to such conditions at sea but that doesn' mean I enjoy them."

"I never considered that you did."

It was not a difficult matter to make the stop, for the offices were not far from the dockyards, and Lachlan seemed much more relaxed once clothed in fresh clothing. I noticed that the clothing was of a better quality as well. He truly must be nervous about this errand, and it made me wonder how he had been received the first time he had gone.

I recalled his bitter tone when he had recalled the account, and my temper flared slightly, for Lachlan was a much finer man than the cut of the cloth he wore.

The same thought had occurred to Holmes, for he made it a point to walk behind the seaman as we were ushered into the nicely furnished offices of the Lansing line.

A broad-shouldered man sat hunched over a desk. His nose not an inch from the paper on which he was writing, it was obvious that he needed glasses but was too proud to wear them.

His suit was clean cut, probably from Savile Row, and his thinning hair was combed severally across his head. He had a hook nose and high cheekbones which gave him a distinct equine look. Mulish might be a good word to describe it.

He glanced up as we entered and his thin face darkened at the sight of Lachlan, whose usually amiable face had set into a wary scowl.

The mulish man set down his pen with a condescending sigh, and clasped his hands in front of him. He looked at our sailor with the air of a parent addressing a particularly stupid child.

"Mr. Lachlan. I really must insist that you cease to disturb my work with your wild tales. I have duties."

I could almost see the steam dissipate from the midshipman's skin, but he showed no outward sign at the insult. Instead he folded his arms and looked at the official with a very cool air indeed.

"Wild tales, Mr. Muir? Where I come from, a friendly warning is heeded and taken seriously."

"And the last time I checked, all you seamen ever talk about is impossible stories of lost lands and mermaids…or in your case, reappearing ships."

"That is precisely why I am here," Lachlan said quietly, ignoring the barb.

Mr. Muir sighed.

"The ships of our rival lines our none of our affair Mr. Lachlan. And acting so impetuously will not earn you gratitude or a higher position."

"I want no such assistance, not from the likes of you."

"Then I suggest you curb your tongue or you will never survive in the higher ranks of the navy midshipman."

_This _ remark made Lachlan's face darken, I felt my own mouth open in retort, but Holmes's hand on my arm stopped me.

"If there is one thing I do not tolerate, it is being called a liar, Mr. Muir." Lachlan said, "I am an honest man, far more honest than most could claim, yerself included."

The seaman leaned in, bracing his hands against the desk. Mr. Muir glared at the rough, capable fingers.

"And it is only because I am honest that I have come to you at all, for quite frankly, sir, you disgust me. And I consider you a money-grubbing weasel what can't see what's in front of his nose. I'm telling you that your ships, three of which I have worked on with my own hands, are sitting in the docks at this moment, bearing the mark of your rival lines!"

"And your mark as well, yes I know, you have already confessed to your acts of vandalism, and they do not impress me in the least. If those ships where indeed mine than I would have you flogged."

Muir looked back to his papers, slipping back into his desk.

"Now leave these premises before I have you escorted out."

Lachlan swallowed, and it was evident he was only just controlling his rage.

"Mr. Muir, men, your own men, and many good friends of mine have gone missing …"

"Ships go down all the time, Mr. Lachlan. And just because one of your grog partners was unlucky enough to be on one of them is no concern of mine. Now leave or I shall make you."

"It is my intent…"

"It is my intent that you go from here now. I do not wish to cause a scene but if you force my hand…Mr. Prewitt!"

A rather burly fellow, with an exceedingly low brow, rose from his seat outside the office and came into the room, a look of mock concern on his face.

"Yes, sir?"

"Would you be kind enough to show Mr. Lachlan the door a little more forcefully than you did last time? It seems your message has not yet gotten through to him."

I felt a wave of indignation sweep through me at those words, and I realized just exactly the sort of treatment Lachlan must have received upon his first visit. The idea of scumbags such as these throwing Lachlan anywhere turned my stomach. Add the fact that he had saved the life of my greatest friend and was now one of my patients, and my rage mounted to a level it rarely reached.

My fists clenched and as the brute reached out towards Lachlan, who in his weakened condition could not possibly resist such an attack, I found myself stepping between them.

Prewitt blinked, and his face darkened. "Get out o' the way, mate, I have no quarrel with you."

"You do if you intend to lay a finger on this man." I said.

Lachlan shifted behind me but said nothing.

Muir growled, "This is ridiculous…who are you? Prewitt, get them out of here!"

"I think not, Mr. Muir," Came the voice of Sherlock Holmes, and I sighed in relief, for 'Prewitt' was a very powerful-looking man.

Muir glared at my friend who smiled amiably back, his hat and stick in hand.

"Who are you?" he repeated.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend and colleague Dr. Watson. You received our cards I believe, but you were rude enough not only to ignore them but also to ignore our presence when we entered."

"Holmes…." Muir glared at my friend, but the look was not without respect. "What business do you have here, sir?"

"I have been engaged by Mr. Lachlan to investigate the mystery surrounding…how did you put it…your 'reappearing ships'."

Muir sighed, the indulgent look back on his face again.

"Mr. Holmes, I do not know what stories this man has been telling you, but it is absolutely no concern of yours."

I swore softly at the man's cheek and the word made Lachlan raise a brow. But again Holmes intervened.

"It is very much my affair, Mr. Muir, not only because it had been brought to me by a worthy and trusted client but because it concerns the deaths of quite a few innocent men."

Muir glared at Holmes, his patience gone very quickly.

"I have no desire to speak with you sir. I suggest you and your friends leave."

"It would be wise of you to listen, Mr. Muir, for it is for the sake of your company that we have come. And there is a chance that a great disaster can be averted and many lives saved if you cooperate. "

"Is that a threat, Mr. Holmes?" Muir said getting to his feet.

Holmes let out a short barking laugh and managed to spoil any effect the action might have had by seating himself at the same moment.

Muir's glare turned to more of a pout and he managed to look rather foolish, despite the fact that he loomed over Holmes who smiled up at him rather cheekily, obviously in the dominant position despite his posture.

"No, Mr. Muir, it is not a threat but a warning…I am not as you seem determined to believe, your enemy. Not yet."

Muir bristled, like a dog who has scented something he does not like.

"What do you want from me then?"

Holmes chuckled, rolling his head. "Want? Mr. Muir, we want nothing from you but a few moments of your time."

"I have given you that already."

"And have proven yourself ungentlemanly and exceedingly inhospitable from the unfortunate moment we have walked through your door."

Muir sighed, looked at Lachlan and I and our defensive positions, and waved Prewitt away.

I looked to Holmes and he nodded.

"I believe you can sit down, Watson. No one here will touch Mr. Lachlan, I promise you." He cast a stern glance at Muir, who said nothing.

I seated myself beside Holmes and after a moment of further hesitation, Lachlan sat on Holmes' other side, a very uncomfortable look on his face.

"Thank you," Holmes said, turning back to Muir. "There is a distinct lessening of tension."

"Say what you have come to say, Mr. Holmes." Muir said, "and perhaps I can persuade you of the folly of what this man has told you."

"Mr. Lachlan _**is**_ an honest man; his observations were entirely correct. And it is only because of your pigheadedness that he was forced to come to me. And as being in your presence disgusts not only him, but me as well, then I shall be brief."

Muir seemed rather taken aback and for once said nothing.

"In the last year you have lost over twenty ships in the same waters on their return journey from Indonesia."

Muir nodded, the irritation clear on his face. "Yes, yes."

"The first several were only cargo ships, but a few after that carried passengers."

"Mr. Holmes, I don't see what this possibly -"

Holmes raised his voice, the amusement gone entirely from his face.

"And you reported that all twenty of them went down with all hands, cargo, and passengers. Without a sign, vanished completely."

"Yes!"

Lachlan tensed on Holmes' other side and looked as though he would like to growl at the fellow. The detective laid a hand on his arm, his voice very cold.

"It is you who are the liar, Mr. Muir, for you have recovered eight of those ships in the last three months…and after refurbishing them you sold them to your rivals to cover the fact that they had been lost at all."

"Why you…!" the man spat, beginning to make his way around the desk.

"You sent expeditions after them, for their number is too great to merit their disappearance to mere chance. The first of those expeditions found the ship…the _'Beschermer,'_ I believe it was, and discovered that not only was the ship and the cargo intact but that the entire crew were present."

Muir was shaking now, his teeth bared.

Holmes glared at him with a gaze of cold steel that made even me shudder. His thin lips pressed together in a stern line, his black brows like thunderheads heralding a storm.

"The crew were dead, Mr. Muir, every one of them from the captain down to the youngest hand. They had been like that for some time, for they had already begun to degrade rapidly…but there was enough to tell that their bodies were unmarked by violence just as the ship was. You suspected poison, or fever, commanded the ship to be purged, and then resold it."

Muir had gone white, and he stared at Holmes with a sort of horror. Holmes had risen from his chair and begun to pace slowly, like a professor in lecture.

I exchanged a look with Lachlan who looked just as surprised and in fact as ill as I did. At least I was not the only one.

"And that was not the first incident. You recovered eight more of the ships, and treated them all in the same manner, choosing to cover them for fear of scandal instead of investigating the matter as you should have. Making you, in my eyes, as equally guilty of murder as the fiends that committed these atrocities."

Muir swallowed and took a moment to collect himself, fiddling with his tie. Holmes watched him, as calm and as cool as a cat.

"Even if this wild story were true, Mr. Holmes, it does not explain what you are doing here."

"I believe you know why I am here, Mr. Muir. You have agents in the pubs, I know quite a few of them. I very much doubt that they have missed the rumors."

Muir's face scrunched and he controlled his rage only with effort.

"I do not deal in rumors, Mr. Holmes. I don't know what you are talking about."

Holmes sighed, "The rumors about your passenger ship, the _Friesland_, which is at this very moment ready to sail for India. And which will be set upon long before she reaches it. By the same group."

Muir laughed, but it was without mirth. "Oh really, Mr. Holmes, you go too far...the greatest care has gone into the planning of this voyage, just what would you have me do to prevent this 'disaster'?"

Holmes' expression did not change.

"You know the answer to that as well, sir. If you were wise you would cancel the voyage, for if you continue in this manner than you will bring about the scandal that you are so poorly covering…and there will be an outcry throughout the civilized world that has not been heard in decades."

A silence fell as Muir glared at Holmes, the truth of my friend's statements painfully obvious on his face. Then he swallowed and spoke in a strained voice.

"You are mad."

Holmes glared at him. "If you decide to cease your foolish actions, then you should know where to reach me, it is on the cards that you failed to observe. Lachlan, Watson, I suggest we leave…the air here is exceedingly foul in here."

My friend snapped this off at a rapid clip, and then without ceremony took up his hat and his stick and swept from the room, leaving Lachlan and I to follow in his wake.

Mr. Muir stayed at his desk, staring at his white fists, clenched on the polished wood.

We caught up to Holmes as he waved down a cab, and climbed in.

"Holmes," I called after him. "Holmes…where did that come from?"

"Deduction and observation, Watson, as it always has. My efforts that night at the docks were not entirely wasted. I learned a great deal."

Lachlan climbed in after us, "A fever took the ships…how…who…?"

"That is the question." Holmes muttered falling silent, brooding, obviously frustrated. I sighed and gave the directions to the cabbie, casting an apologetic glance at the midshipman.

Lachlan returned the look with a worried one of his own, but there was nothing either of us could do but sit back and wait out the ride in a sober silence.

At long last we reached Baker Street and Holmes came to life again, flinging open the door.

Lachlan gripped at his arm suddenly, and the detective turned to face him. The sailor gave him a stern look.

"You know who it is, Mr. Holmes, you have a theory. Now who is it?"

Holmes considered him, then me, and I gave him the same pointed look

The detective sighed.

"I can think of only one man with such a knowledge of exotic Indonesian fevers _and_ the motive and necessary cunning to use them. His name is - Culverton Smith."


	13. Charting a Course

Chapter 13: "Charting a Course"

_**Watson**_

Holmes jumped down out of the cab and paid the driver, as calmly as if he had not just made such a dreadful pronouncement.

"Holmes!"

He unlocked the door of the house, oblivious to my calls, and I sighed and helped Lachlan out. The seaman looked a trifle shaky, and no wonder – such a fever as that could debilitate a man, no matter how strong he usually was. I took him up to the sitting room and settled him on the couch with a pillow and a drink.

Holmes came out of his bedroom, pipe in hand, and with an extremely excited look on his face at the knowledge he had just told us.

"That is the answer, I am sure of it. Smith is loose, Watson, he has to be!" he exclaimed, striking a match, completely unaware of the wave of horror that was sweeping over me.

I took a deep breath, willing my mind to disbelieve what Holmes had just stated as calmly as if he were discussing the weather outside.

"He is not alive, Holmes – he died in prison a year or so back!" I protested desperately.

Holmes raised his eyebrows.

"How do you know?"

"I saved the article – old habit I suppose," I said, my face flushing slightly, "I still tried to keep up with such things on my own after your 'death', Holmes."

My friend's face started a slight blush of his own at my words.

To cover our embarrassment I got up, striding over to my desk, and pulled out a scrapbook rather like Holmes's own, in which I had pasted articles and so on of criminal news from his hiatus years. I began to flip through it slowly, walking back to my friend.

"Here," I said, finally locating the clipping and shoving the book over to Holmes.

He took it and read the terse paragraph, which merely stated that Smith had died alone in prison, hanging himself in his cell with a twisted blanket. The article was only a tiny paragraph with no details.

Holmes shut the book thoughtfully and looked at me, his grey eyes narrowing.

"I still would wager he is alive, Watson," he said thoughtfully, "to fake a death in order to escape from prison has been done before, many times. And especially, a man of Smith's intellect would have no difficulty whatsoever in engineering such a feat."

I swallowed hard round the lump of fear in my throat – if that were true, Culverton Smith was alive. He was alive, somewhere out there in the world, possibly even here in London. And learning of Holmes's return from the grave, Smith would no doubt be coming after him in revenge.

He had said as much that horrible day in '90, when I had been forced to listen to that dreadful confession from Smith that he had killed Holmes with a deadly disease. Granted, Holmes was not really in any danger, but the thought of how close the call was still to this day frightened me.

I had long ago forgiven my friend for his deception in the case, though I had not quite forgotten it, and the only emotion I felt now about the case was a relief that Holmes had not really been infected.

But now, if my friend were right, this madman was loose upon the world, and heaven only knew what he was planning to do with the dangerous knowledge he possessed. Adding his madness to the fact that he had a personal vendetta against Holmes, I was very deathly afraid of what would happen if Smith took it into his head to come after Holmes again.

I took up the scrapbook, hoping to hide my shaking hands and the emotion on my features by walking back over to my desk and putting it back in position – but Holmes had already seen the look on my face, and he gingerly arose from his seat and followed me over to stand by the window.

"Watson. It will be fine; please stop worrying so," he said reassuringly, looking at me with a calm I wished I could possess.

"_Fine_? This man is a deranged maniac with a grudge against you, Holmes! You heard him as well as I when Morton arrested him four years ago – he said he would revenge himself on you, and now that he has found out you are alive, he will devote his energies to that!" I said, wishing my voice would hold still.

"He tried once to get rid of me, Watson – and failed. He will not succeed on a second attempt either," Holmes returned firmly.

"You cannot know that!"

"Yes, I can, old fellow," he replied calmly, "because I am not foolish enough to tackle him alone this time – I have the best help possible now to watch my back. I am not worried, and neither should you be."

I started, staring at him in surprise, and he smiled at me reassuringly and went back to stand by the fire, lighting his pipe. After a tense moment, I quietly went back to my chair and sat.

Lachlan had been watching this discussion from the couch, and now he spoke up wearily.

"Pardon my asking, gentlemen, but I have to admit I've never heard of the man, and I am rather confused."

I was silent, and Holmes glanced at me before telling Lachlan what had transpired those years ago in the Smith case. I had not yet written up that particular case, for the pain and fear of the memory was still too poignant for me to be summed up in cold black print.

The seaman's tired eyes widened as Holmes stated what had happened in the Smith case and then tied in the connection between the news article and the knife he had been stabbed with.

The knife!

"Holmes! That knife – if Smith is responsible – that knife could have had some germ on it like he tried on you before!" I gasped, my hand clenching on the arm of my chair, the deadly thought turning me sick.

"Watson, calm down!" Holmes said sharply, but his eyes betrayed his concern despite his curt words, "I am perfectly fine – even if that were true, I have survived it and so has Lachlan, so for heaven's sake, man, get a grip on yourself!"

"I am sorry," I whispered, dropping my gaze.

I really was not thinking clearly, I was so very tired. I rubbed wearily at my temples with a grimace of pain, feeling that throbbing headache of this morning coming back.

I felt two strong hands drop onto my shoulders and grip them tightly, willing me to calm down. I took a deep breath, trying to relax myself, and the hands stayed as the discussion continued.

"Are you saying, Mr. Holmes, that this Smith character is behind the ships disappearing?" Lachlan asked, raising himself gingerly on one elbow.

"It is a theory, at least," I heard my friend's voice above me, "there is definitely a connection between whatever was on that knife and our unusual illnesses. Tropical diseases point to Smith, as does the fact that the ships all disappear somewhere near Indonesia."

"Why is that?" I asked, my voice steady now.

"Because, Watson, Smith was a well-known resident of Sumatra before he came to live in London. An outbreak of disease started on his plantation there and wiped out his working force, plunging him into debt. He came to his London residence to live and to research odd tropical diseases and their cures."

"And you think that there was some germ on that knife that caused that odd fever?" Lachlan asked.

"I agree, there had to have been something odd," I interjected, my nerves starting to calm down under the matter-of-fact discussion, "for such a sudden coming on of a fever and such a rapid escalation in temperature is definitely not the normal, even for a severe infection."

Holmes's hands tightened once more on my shoulders before releasing, and then he walked over to his chemical table, extremely gingerly handling the knife he had placed there before we left.

"It is a fair deduction to say that the germ, the virus, or whatever the case may be, is only transmitted through the bloodstream," he mentioned, setting the instrument down once more, "because you have not gotten it, Watson, even though you were physically in close contact with both Lachlan and myself."

I nodded in agreement.

"So rest easy, Watson – whatever it is, it is not the disease Smith tried to give me in our last encounter, for that one was contagious by touch, you remember?"

"All too well, Holmes," I said dryly, remembering indeed Holmes's poor choice of words when he was trying to prevent me from coming near him in his sickroom four years ago.

Some odd expression I could not identify flitted briefly across his gaunt face before it was replaced by a pained expression, and he sat down heavily opposite me, wincing at the strain he was causing to his injury.

I arose at once and got my medical bag, fumbling around in it for a roll of bandaging and the antiseptic.

"Not now, Watson."

"Yes, now, Holmes," I retorted, "I am in no mood to argue with you – I was supposed to do this last night and I fell asleep. Now take off your shirt."

Holmes glared at me, but he finally relented when he saw my no-nonsense look and tone and removed his jacket and shirt, allowing me to check and rebandage the wound. It appeared to show no sign of further infection, for which I was devoutly grateful, and it took only a few minutes to wrap fresh bandaging around the injury.

Holmes buttoned up his shirt once more as I put the supplies back in the bag, rummaging through it for another small pain reliever.

"What course are you chartin' for us now, Holmes?" I heard Lachlan ask as I located the paper packet.

"We are going to have to get aboard that ship the _Friesland_ before she sets sail tomorrow night," Holmes stated matter-of-factly.

"What?" I asked incredulously, pouring the powder into a glass and adding water.

Holmes shot me a concerned look but said nothing about the fact that I was taking medicine.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes, the ship sails in less than two days, and she's sure to be booked solid – a steamer of that size and expense!" Lachlan exclaimed.

"I have already put a plan into motion that I believe will land us all three on board with relatively little difficulty," Holmes said, rubbing his hands together gleefully, "that is, if you are willing to sign on as a hand, Lachlan?"

Lachlan stared at Holmes for a long minute, while I gulped down the foul-tasting medicine I had just mixed.

"I have to say, Mr. Holmes, when I signed on with the two of you, I dinna expect to be at sea so soon," he said solemnly, but then I saw his eyes twinkle with a brilliant blueness and he continued with a crinkling grin. "But if ye think I can be of help, I shall be glad to stow my gear with you."

"You have already been an enormous help, Lachlan," I spoke up as I set my glass down, rubbing at my temples, "you saved Holmes's life on the docks, and I for one owe you an unrepayable debt for that."

Holmes shot me an odd look as I spoke, but Lachlan headed off anything he was about to say.

"Yes, well, you both returned the favor for this old salt last night, so we can consider the score even, now can't we? How exactly are you proposin' to get me a berth on the _Friesland_ in two days, Holmes?"

"Well, I –"

Holmes was cut off by a familiar speedy tromping of small feet upon the stairs, and I smiled as the door burst open to reveal our little Irregular, wielding a sheaf of yellow envelopes.

" 'Ere's the answers to yer wires, Mr. 'Olmes!" the lad said, out of breath from his run.

The boy bounced over to the detective, handed him the papers, and then skipped back to me.

"Got anythin' good ta eat, Doctor?" he asked in a conspiratorial whisper.

I smiled, the lad's bright face putting a little ray of sunshine through the pain that was clouding my mind.

"I rather think Mr. Holmes has a tin of biscuits around here somewhere, Alfie," I returned, rummaging through the sideboard drawers, "perhaps – ah yes, here you are."

"Cor, ta Doctor!" the boy exclaimed, glancing at Holmes to ensure he was not being seen raiding the detective's stash of sweets.

After the boy had sufficiently stuffed his pockets, I knelt back down to put the tin away, and I suddenly turned to look into a pair of little green eyes that were gazing at me suspiciously.

"What's wrong, Alfie?"

"Are yew all roight, Doctor? You look fair sick ta me," the boy said frankly, fixing those green orbs on me with a sharpness that surprised me in one so young.

Some of my tension left me at the lad's words, and I smiled.

"I have a slight headache, Alfie, nothing to worry about," I said softly, ruffling the boy's ginger hair as I stood up.

He scowled knowingly at me and ran a little hand back through the tangled mess with a grimace, and I laughed at his indignant face.

"_**Hah**_!" we were both startled when Holmes's vociferous exclamation grabbed our attention, "I've done it!"

"Done what, Holmes?"

"Gotten us passage on the _Friesland_, Watson!" my friend said, nearly bouncing in his excitement. I went back over to my chair, and Alfie somehow scrambled up onto my desk to look over Holmes's shoulder at the telegrams.

"Do you remember my mentioning M. Oscar Meurnier, of Grenoble, Watson?"

"The fellow who made that grotesque bust of you that you insist upon keeping on your bedside table?"

"It is NOT grotesque!" Holmes cried indignantly.

" 'Tis too!" the Irregular jumped to my defense. "Fair flipped me an' Wig out th' last time we was 'ere – give me th' whim-whams, that blasted thing did, with them bullet 'oles in th' forehead!"

I snickered, and I heard Lachlan join me as we laughed at the look Holmes sent over his shoulder to the boy behind him.

"Anyhow, Watson, if you will be so kind as to listen – stop that, Alfie! You are getting crumbs all over my shoulder! This French artist Meurnier I met about a year ago while I was studying with some scientists in France. I did him a huge favor when a number of his choicest pieces of art were stolen, and after I recovered the articles safely he told me if I ever needed a favor to not hesitate to call upon him."

I stared at Holmes as he rattled off this list of facts concerning a part of his Hiatus. He must have noticed the eager story-hunting look on my face as I was about to ask him for particulars regarding this art case, for he hurried on before I could ask any questions.

"The fellow knows a good deal of people; he has many connections in his own country and ours. He knew of two fellow artists that were planning to travel on the _Friesland_, and as a favor to M. Meurnier and if we can refund the gentlemen's money, then they are willing to give up their staterooms to us!"

"Then _we_ are on the steamer, Holmes, but what about Lachlan? The crew has to already be set," I said, puzzled.

My furrowed brow relaxed as I saw Alfie accidentally drop a piece of a biscuit into Holmes's hair and look frantically at me with a silent panicked appeal for help. I hid a laugh behind a cough as Holmes went on, totally oblivious to us both, and I could hear Lachlan trying not to snicker, as the lad peered down from his perch nervously at the offending edible.

"I also have this wire here," Holmes said, tossing it to me. I opened the paper and read it.

"_Captain Basil_?"

"My name in the docking areas, Watson," Holmes informed me, "having connections in the shipping offices and the docking offices has its perks, and I have taken advantage of my double identity as Captain Basil there more than once. You're to report to the _Friesland_ early tomorrow morning, Lachlan, if you're willing. The ship sets sail tomorrow night at ten. Alfie! What the devil are you doing!"

The lad had been carefully trying to remove the piece of biscuit out of Holmes's hair and only succeeded just now in pulling his black locks accidentally. As Holmes turned a scathing glare in the boy's direction, he flew off the desk and nearly jumped on me for protection, hiding his face in my waistcoat.

I could not repress my laughter at Holmes's face, and Lachlan was roaring with mirth on the couch.

"Alfie, I think perhaps you had better be getting along," I said, still chortling, standing and setting the boy on his feet, "before Mr. Holmes has a heart attack."

I went over to my desk to grab some change for the lad as he said goodbye to Holmes, and while my back was turned I heard a low-voiced exchange that warmed my heart considerably.

"Mr. 'Olmes, yew better look after the Doctor – 'e don' look good ta me."

"I shall, Alfie, do not worry."

"Yew better, Mr. 'Olmes – you ain't gonna find 'nother bloke like 'im in an 'undred years!"

"I have come to realize that, lad, believe me," I heard Holmes say softly, and I smiled as I grabbed the change out of my wallet, noticing absently that my headache seemed to have subsided slightly.

Strange how the honesty of one little child could brighten up an otherwise irritating day.


	14. Distant Thunder

_"Distant Thunder"_

_**Watson**_

As the door shut behind our little friend Alfie, I passed a hand over my eyes and sat heavily down in my chair. Holmes had walked over to the desk and was once again studying that devilish knife, being careful to not get near the blade.

"I do wish I could know what I am looking for," he growled, "I cannot perform experiments at random, hoping to isolate some germ."

"Where do you suppose Smith is now, Holmes?" I asked wearily.

"I have one of those odd feelings, Watson, that leads me to believe he might even be in London. Perhaps – perhaps he might even be taking the _Friesland_ back to India and so on to Sumatra."

"He – he might be on the ship?!"

"Especially if he has found out that I am alive, I would think him to be in London now. And he has ways of finding out what I am up to. It is very possible."

The seaman looked at me worriedly, then at Holmes, and stood, cautiously stretching himself.

"Well, gentlemen. If I am to be aboard the _Friesland_ this time tomorrow, I have a good many things to see to first. I shall bid you both good day."

"Let me call you a cab, Lachlan," I said, rising from my seat.

I was surprised when the man grasped my shoulders and pushed me back down into my chair with a firm grip.

"You've done quite enough for me, Doctor," he said, his blue eyes losing their twinkle and taking on an earnest gaze, "and I thank you. But I shall be perfectly fine now, have na fear."

"Promise me you will call a cab then, Lachlan – you cannot walk all the way back to the dockyards, no matter how well you feel right now," I said, looking up at him warningly.

"I am not such a fool as to chance a relapse when you and Mr. Holmes are expectin' me ta show tomorrow, Doctor," the man assured me, pulling on his cloth cap.

"Then until tomorrow, Mr. Lachlan," I said, shaking his hand firmly.

"Until tomorrow. Good day, Mr. Holmes?"

"Good day, Lachlan," Holmes pulled himself out of his study and showed the man to the door, shaking his hand as he left.

I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes; that confounded headache was only just now starting to subside, but I could still feel the throbbing behind my eyes from stress and fatigue.

I felt a hand on my arm and opened my eyes to look into a pair of worried grey ones a few inches from my face.

"How's your head?"

"It is getting better," I said, smiling at his concern – he probably had been worried at the beginning that I might have contracted that horrid fever.

No, I had had stress headaches before, many times because of Sherlock Holmes; that was part and parcel of the deal of living with the world's greatest consulting detective!

"You know I'm a little worried about that headache."

"Holmes, for heaven's sake – anyone who has to live with you is prone to headaches with fair regularity!" I teased, now that the pain had subsided slightly.

"Watson! Are you implying I am responsible for it?"

"You are the deducing machine, Holmes – figure that one out for yourself."

I let my eyes twinkle at his indignation, and he snorted a laugh. But then his gaze darkened again.

"Are you sure you have no other symptoms –"

"No fever, Holmes, I promise. I would know. And besides, I have had this lovely little headache for nearly six hours now – your and Lachlan's symptoms showed up after only two. It is only a stress headache, nothing more. Now _you_ are the one who needs to stop worrying, not I."

I saw a look of relief cross his face, and he sat back on his heels to inspect my condition and deduce it for himself. What he saw must have taken away his worry, for he smiled and spoke again.

"Do you feel up for a walk?"

"A walk? Holmes, your stitches –"

"Come on, Watson, I want to get us both out of this sitting room for a while," Holmes said earnestly, "we've spent far too much intense time in here the last two days for my taste. Will you come? Please?"

I was not about to offend him by declining his offer – and I never _have_ been able to tell him no when he turned that particular pleading look in my direction, reminiscent of a tiny puppy dog begging for its daily treat.

"_Don't_ throw my coat at me again," I warned, pulling myself out of my chair slowly.

Holmes laughed, fetched the article, and patiently held it until I took it from him.

The throbbing in my temples had begun to at last recede, and I actually was very glad to be walking about London with Holmes once more, forgetting about the case for a little while at least and just strolling round like we used to so often.

We wandered up Oxford Street, Holmes pulled me into that curiosity shop to show me that microscope he wanted so badly, and I made a mental note to come back and get the thing so that I would not be forced to hear a lecture about it every time we passed the shop. Then we made our way to Hyde Park to see some of our old haunts.

I fell into a nostalgic mood as we walked along, in silence for the most part, letting the warm breeze blow away the stress and pain of the last few days and clear my mind wonderfully.

I let out a contented sigh as we reached the gates of the park – we had not been here since Holmes's return yet, so busy had we been.

"Feel better now?"

"Yes, indeed," I replied.

"Just what the doctor ordered?" he asked teasingly.

I chuckled – one could not stay in a bad mood for long in the company of Sherlock Holmes.

The silence broken and my good humor restored, we began to talk about the most odd topics in the world, as we used to do. Holmes had the somewhat frustrating habit of bringing up the most randomly assorted pieces of information and jumping back and forth among them without giving my slower brain time to catch up – but I just walked and listened and let him ramble, for that was what we had always done.

We sat on a bench for a while to give Holmes a chance to rest – I was very worried about those stitches pulling loose, though my friend insisted that they were fine. And as we sat, he entertained me with trying to coerce me into a deducing game with him about the people who passed us.

"What of you make of that fellow over there, the one in the brown coat and bowler?"

"Holmes, I am _not_ your brother, and as such I am not going to play brain games with you!"

"Thank the dear Lord you are _not_ Mycroft, I could not live with you if you were," Holmes muttered.

I laughed aloud at that, and my companion snickered as well.

"I cannot imagine how you two got along as children, Holmes."

"Or rather didn't get along," he said with a grin, "Mycroft was never tolerant of someone who tore the blank pages out of the back of his books to make litmus paper for experiments."

"Oh, is _that_ why the back pages of my dictionary are missing?" I asked, eyeing him for his reaction.

"I never touched your dictionary!"

I laughed again, the warm contented feeling spreading over me and finally banishing the vestiges of that black mood I had been in earlier.

"I was teasing, Holmes," I told him with a grin, and I saw a look of relief cross his face.

"What did Mycroft do to you when he found out?"

"That, my dear chap, will forever remain a classified secret in my brother's archives," Holmes said uncomfortably, "suffice it to say, he was rather less forgiving than you are, Watson."

I laughed again at that as Holmes pulled me gently to my feet and we set off again through the park.

"Holmes?"

"Yes, my dear fellow?"

"About this Meurnier chap."

"Ah. Your story sensors went up at that, did they?"

"Mmhm."

He laughed easily and began to tell me of the case in which he had traced Meurnier's missing art halfway across France, finally ending in Paris.

"You've not been to Paris since '87, have you Watson, when we were in that stolen tiara investigation?"

"No, I have not. We did not hit Paris on our trek through the continent running from Moriarty, did we?" I asked, trying to remember hazy events of that dreadful week.

"No, no. We went through Dieppe and then Belgium. We shall have to go back to Paris sometime, Watson, just the two of us – it has changed rather much in the last seven years. I think you would enjoy it," my friend replied thoughtfully.

"Are you actually offering to take me on a holiday without a case to arrest your attention?" I asked in astonishment.

"Well…"

"That's what I thought," I said with a laugh.

We wandered on into the more fashionable district of town, just enjoying each other's company and conversation, until I realized I was exceedingly hungry. I had been in too much pain to eat much breakfast, and Holmes's exuberant plans of earlier had negated any possibility of having lunch. I determined that we would end this day in rather more a pleasant fashion than our last two had begun.

"Holmes?"

"Hmm?"

"How does dinner at Simpson's strike you?"

"Simpson's, Watson? I am afraid that after those steamer tickets…"

I laughed and smiled. "Never mind, Holmes; I am paying."

Holmes frowned. "I can't let you do that, old fellow."

"Yes, you can." I said, stepping out of the way of even more foot traffic. "I sold my practice not more than two weeks past and I, as our colonial relatives so colorfully put it, am _loaded_."

Holmes let out a short bark of laughter.

"Still, Watson, I cannot -"

"_**Yes, you can.**_" I repeated firmly, "we are almost there, and I am hungry - your mad dash did not allow for any lunch. Unless you choose to join me, than you shall simply have to stand about waiting while I eat."

Holmes let out a resigned sigh and smiled.

"Oh, very well, Watson. You can be infernally stubborn."

"I'm surprised it has taken you this long to deduce it." I said, eliciting a glare from him.

We walked in comfortable silence for a few moments, needing no words to fill the empty air. Then I broke it, spotting my chance to resolve a little matter that had been bothering me for over a week.

"Quite a generous chap, Mr. Verner."

Holmes was watching the crowd distractedly. "Hmm?"

"You remember the gentleman who purchased my practice; he took it at the first price I suggested. Not a bit of haggling. Young and ambitious, but he did not strike me as being particularly wealthy."

I observed my friend out of the corner of my eye. He had stiffened slightly, and was staring at the man in front of him with a good deal more concentration than was usual.

I went on, "Do you know that the surname Verner was originally French? I meant to ask the fellow about it but he vanished; seems he did not need the practice after all, for now it belongs to a Mr. Blackwell, an aging country Doctor with too much money."

"Hmm," Holmes said again, still staring determinedly ahead.

"That fellow's coat must be truly fascinating, Holmes, if you can stare at it for five minutes straight."

The detective cleared his throat.

"Nonsense, Watson, I was thinking."

"Mmm…still, I wouldn't have been surprised, for you cannot stop yourself from deducing the most embarrassing facts about every poor soul that passes beneath your gaze."

"One becomes accustomed to it." Holmes said, looking at me and then away again. It was quite clear that he wished the subject to pass. "I did not choose my powers of observation."

"No, no of course not…art in the blood and all that."

Holmes opened his mouth but I beat him to the punch.

"Vernet, wasn't it?"

"Pardon?" His voice was rather tentative.

"Vernet, your grandmother was the French artist's sister? You claim to have inherited your talents from her."

"Yes, Watson, I am quite aware of my own relatives." His thin face was flushed slightly, he was truly not looking at me now.

"Odd, it seems to me you don't know them quite as well as you should, considering the fact that your distant cousin makes a habit of going about London buying up medical practices at the asking price!"

We had reached Simpson's by this time and I entered before Holmes could reply, grinning at his surprised face.

He regained his composure quickly and hurried after me.

"Watson."

I frowned and fixed him with a stern gaze, trying desperately not to laugh at his semi-panicked expression.

"Really, Holmes."

"Watson, let me explain."

"Your own cousin."

"Watson…"

"Your own money as well, no doubt. To think that you objected to my paying for dinner."

"Watson!" he stopped and glared at me in frustration. "Will you listen to me for a moment?"

"Yes, but at the table - I am famished."

Holmes growled but followed and soon we were seated at our customary table beside the windows, where Holmes could observe the flood of humanity as it filed past, like specimens for his examination, his cold gaze the tool that he used to dissect the mystery surrounding them.

Only tonight he was not looking at them but glaring at me, his elbows on the table and his hands clasped before him.

I struggled to sober my expression.

"Really, Holmes, Verner? Did you just expect me to let it go at the drop of a hat? That I might not be the least bit curious as to how my practice was progressing under his hand? He's not even a medical student, is he? I imagine the degree was forged?"

Holmes held the glare for a moment and then sighed.

"You know, Watson, you were a good deal easier to fool in our earlier years at Baker Street. No, Verner is a genuine practitioner…but he plans to go to South Africa on a relief mission; he did this as a favor to me. I never believed you would be tenacious enough to check his background. You used to be far more trusting."

"Yes, I know. Which is why I believed you when you first said the upper room at our flat would be far more quiet and so beneficial to my then fragile health. One gets exceedingly weary of those stairs after years of traipsing up and down them, old fellow," I replied, very much enjoying seeing my friend's face as he seemed to splutter for words.

Holmes indeed looked extremely sheepish and had opened his mouth to say something…but was interrupted by the arrival of our waiter, and then the subsequent serving of our meals.

By the time our table had settled again Holmes's irritation had mellowed somewhat and he looked at me directly for the first time since the subject was introduced.

We locked gazes…and started to laugh, earning a severe and very disapproving look from an elderly gentleman seated across from us.

We quieted on the instant like two guilty little schoolboys and Holmes cut into his woodcock, quivering with silent laughter.

"Forgive me, Watson. I feared that if you did not find a buyer…"

I waved it off.

"Never mind. I am sure that Mr. Blackwell paid your cousin a handsome price and that you were subsequently reimbursed? I must say, Holmes, that thespianism runs in your family as well. At the time Verner took me in entirely. As you have done many times…"

I trailed off as a new and very sobering thought pushed itself to the forefront of my mind, and I placed my utensils on my plate, my appetite somewhat lost.

Holmes had been eating quite tenaciously but now took notice of my silence and his brows drew together in concern.

"Watson, are you all right?"

I sighed. "Are you not the least bit worried, Holmes?"

Holmes laid down his fork and turned his full attention to me, his brow furrowing with concern.

"What about, my dear fellow?"

I felt a touch of irritation but brushed it aside…now was not the time for such things.

"About Smith, Holmes."

Holmes frowned.

"Watson, I have already told you, he did not succeed in killing me the last time – I was on my guard, and now I am even more so. I have you, and Mr. Lachlan also it seems, to watch my back."

"He has killed whole ships of men, if your deductions are correct."

"Because that idiot Muir refused to take precautions."

I sighed and rested my head in my hand. I almost preferred the headache to this dread. But my head was perfectly clear now, and I understood fully the implications of Smith's involvement.

"Watson."

At his quiet voice I looked up to see my friend staring at me earnestly.

"I promise you nothing will happen to me. We have beaten him once. We shall do so again."

His words were steady, and meant to be reassuring, but somehow I could not quite believe him. Tomorrow we would be on a ship that was going to be at some point attacked by one of the most dangerous madmen alive…a man who had caused me to quiver with the greatest of fears.

I could almost see the storm clouds beginning to loom over us and the distant thunder of danger on the horizon.

I met Holmes's steady gaze and could not repress the memory of him delirious and in pain upon his bed, the sound of Smith's voice as he leant over the man I thought to be helpless, while I hid in the same room, witness to every word of what could have been my friend's death sentence. I dropped my gaze, not wanting Holmes to see the emotion I knew must be evident in my features.

The years had not dulled the pain and horror of that awful night. Act or no, it had been all too, too real to me.

This time it could be…it almost had been already.

"I pray you are right, Holmes." I said at last, glad my voice was steady, lifting my fork so as not to worry him further. "For all our sakes."


	15. Shake a Leg

Chapter 15: "Shake a Leg"

Shake a leg: Nautical term meaning to rouse yourself from sleep and get out of bed.

_**Holmes:**_

The sound was quite loud enough to reach even my bedroom. And I found it impossible to continue my slumber through the ruckus.

I jerked my head up from the pillow with a grumble, brushing my hair back and scrambling for the watch which lay on my bedside table.

"4:21!" I snapped to the still air in frustration. I had never placed much importance on the need of sleep…but even I had my limits. I threw back my covers and pulled on my dressing gown, then surged from the bedroom.

"MRS. HUDSON! WHO THE DEVIL IS AT THE DOOR!?"

My voice rang unanswered down the dark stairwell. I took another deep lungful of air.

"MRS. HUDSON…WILL YOU ANSWER THE DOOR?!"

There was no answer, the pounding continued, the infernal woman had to be asleep still. Not that I blamed her.

There was a muffled thump in the room above mine and a faint voice. The sound had awoken Watson as well.

Another bout of pounding rattled our door, so with a resigned grumble I stumbled gingerly down the stairs, holding my stitches.

I picked up a large stick from the stand in the hall, for there are few friendly reasons for visiting at that cursed hour.

It was not needful, for when I cracked open the door and peered out I caught sight of a by now familiar face.

The fellow grinned in a manner far too pleasant, and his blue eyes twinkled.

"Lachlan! What the devil are you doing here? Do you have any idea what time it is?!"

The midshipman chuckled softly…at least his voice was softer than his fist. "Good morning to you, Mr. Holmes…you look a bit tired."

I glared at him out of bleary eyes. He was cursedly together for that hour, looking far more sharp than usual in his uniform, hair combed, face red with the cool night air. _His eyes _were clear and sharp.

He grinned again at my lack of response and looked around him pointedly.

"Are you goin' to let me in?"

"Only if you are going to explain what in heaven's name you are doing here! And at this cursed hour!" I stepped aside, allowing him to slip past me. I closed the door and turned to face him as he gazed about the hall.

He sighed, fiddling with the hat he held in his hands. "You keep the place fairly dark this time of day."

"Lachlan," I growled in a barely controlled voice. "It is 4:21 am! Most people are not even _awake_ at this time of day, much less up!"

That cheeky grin would not drop from his face and it was disgustingly obvious that he knew perfectly well what an inconvenience this was…and did not care one whit.

There was a sound at the head of the steps and another familiar figure stumbled into view, only climbing partway down before stopping.

Watson has always been a heavy sleeper, save on those occasions when he is tending to a patient. Many times I have had to wake him in pursuit of a case and it had proved to be a devilishly difficult business.

At the moment he appeared to be only half-conscious, blinking at us out of half-closed eyes.

"H'mes…what is it? What's going on?"

I could not keep the irritation from my voice. It was my only outlet for my anger short of resorting to physical violence, which I was only moments from doing.

"Lachlan has come to visit us!" I said with a sweeping gesture, throwing the stick back into the stand where it rattled loudly.

Watson gave a groggy blink, "Pardon?"

"Lachlan is here!" I said, raising my voice to a pitch that made even the seaman flinch.

There was no reactive expression from my Boswell. He rubbed his eyes with his hand, and yawned very widely.

"That's nice," he slurred, turning around to trudge back up the stairs.

Lachlan laughed and I snorted, then followed. I needed my pipe.

The seaman's steps pounded energetically behind me; I could picture the insufferable smile on his face. I was strongly tempted to give him a little push down the stairs.

We entered the sitting room to find it awash in light and heat. Watson had stoked the fire and now sat slumped in his armchair, his notebook open on his lap, a pen hanging limply in his hand.

He had been moving on automatic and had slipped back into a semi-slumber, his head lolling against the side of the chair.

I found my pipe and filled it with a fumbling hand, glaring at Lachlan all the while, as he settled himself on the couch. He had at least ceased his smirking.

"Now, Lachlan." I growled taking a deep breath of tobacco and feeling my nerves settle somewhat. "What exactly possessed you to wake us in the middle of the night?"

Lachlan raised his brows and sat back in the sofa. "I've come to make sure you catch your ship, Holmes."

My irritation rose. "It is 4:21."

"Yes, Holmes, I know." Lachlan nodded and smiled, enjoying himself immensely.

"If I recall correctly Lachlan, _you_ were the only one required to report to the ship at 7 am."

"Aye, that's why I am here so early. My train leaves in less than an hour, I just had time to come and see you gents."

"We will see you on the ship!" I felt my face redden in anger.

But Lachlan was not looking at me, his gaze was fixed on Watson and his expression was rather bemused. I turned just in time to see the notebook slip from my friend's nerveless fingers to the floor…he was snoring softly.

I sighed and shook his shoulder.

"Watson."

Further snoring.

"Watson!"

This time my query was answered by a sleepy grunt and an eye cracked open to peer up at me.

"Do wake up, old fellow."

He sighed and straightened, groping on the floor for his notebook.

"Good morning, Doctor." Lachlan said pleasantly.

Watson smiled sleepily and gave a little wave of his hand, he grasped the notebook and sat up again.

"Are we done then?...can I go back to bed or are you two going to keep a fellow up all night?"

It was not in Watson's nature to complain either, further proof of how disoriented he was.

"Actually, Doctor, I'm here to accompany you and Mr. Holmes to the trainyard." Lachlan said, apologetic for the first time.

Watson blinked a few times and fixed our visitor with his first comprehensive glance of the morning.

His voice was clear and incredulous when he spoke again.

"_What_?!"

"As much as we enjoy your company, we had planned to come at a later hour, Lachlan." I said, "the ship does not leave until 10:00 tonight."

"No, Mr. Holmes…you mistook the time. The ship leaves at 10:00 this morning. I learned this after leavin' you gents last night, and the telegraph office would not have been open in time for me to inform you of the matter before I had to leave."

Watson was glaring now, in concentration or frustration I could not tell. He opened his mouth, closed it again and then turned his gaze on me.

"10:00 am."

I sighed. "I am not a walking timetable. Watson. It is a simple mistake."

"I thought you didn't _make_ simple mistakes, Holmes," he said more sharply than before and his scowl had deepened significantly.

"Well, if you gents really want to get more sleep you could take a later train, now that I've told you. There is one that comes a half hour after this one…should give you about fifteen minutes." Lachlan said, watching Watson with a sudden wariness, though the corners of his mouth twitched.

My friend's face had gone rather dark and he rose abruptly from his seat, tossing his notebook forcefully into it.

"Don't be ridiculous!"

"Where are you going?" I called after him as strode to the door.

"To get my bags, the ones I packed last night." He turned around and glared at me. "I _told_ you I had good reason to do it then."

I swore softly. I had yet to pack, and the thought of throwing together my things while this tired galled me.

"Better get started, Holmes." Lachlan said, glancing pointedly up at the clock. "It's already a quarter to five."

I stalked off to my bedroom, grumbling under my breath and imagining various scenarios in which Lachlan was deprived of sleep for days on end, and Watson's methodically packed baggage ended up in a remote backwater town in the United States.

Not an hour later we were ensconced in a compartment on the train in Euston Station, awaiting our departure.

The acts of packing, shaving, and dressing had done much to awaken me, and I was fully alert when I at last stowed the cursed luggage above my head and sat heavily opposite my two companions.

Lachlan was fiddling with a nautical instrument, holding it up to his eye and adjusting it, showing few signs that the early hour or his recent illness had had too much effect on his general robustness.

Watson had settled in the corner, his arms folded, glaring at the world with rather red eyes, his face slack with lack of sleep.

We could at least thank the early hour for our having the compartment to ourselves.

I took several telegrams out of my jacket pocket and read them a second time. My action drew Lachlan's attention and he laid the instrument in his lap.

"More answers, Holmes?" he asked, fixing him with his keen blue gaze.

"Yes," I muttered distractedly, "Young Alfie brought them round last night after you left, just around the time Mrs. Hudson finished another batch of scones…suspiciously enough."

The seaman chuckled at this and Watson sat up straighter in his seat. "Holmes, you never told me what those were about."

"No I didn't…you were busy _packing_."

"Well, what have you learned? They have to be relevant to the case, there is no other reason why you would send inquiries."

Lachlan grunted his agreement and leaned forward slightly, I sighed, and handed over the telegrams which my Boswell eagerly perused.

Watson's face became grim, and he closed the paper quickly, handing it over to Lachlan. "There is no doubt then? He did escape?"

"Yes, Watson. When you have all of the bribable guards on duty in one night, the death of a man in the same cell block only a day before, and take into account that the face of the corpse is almost unrecognizable…I have no further doubts that Culverton Smith is very much alive."

Watson cursed under his breath and sat back, covering his face with his hand. Lachlan cast him a concerned look then turned to meet my gaze.

"What sort of a man would infect entire ships?"

"A madman, who feels as though he has been wronged by the world and has very little care for the lives of others. I do not know his plans, or the reasoning behind his actions, which is why we must discover them on this voyage. And we shall need your help, Lachlan. The _Friesland_ holds over 500 passengers and a very large crew. Smith is clever enough to hide himself almost anywhere among them, you shall have to be our eyes and ears among the crew and the officers. There are too many places where passengers such as Watson and myself are not permitted to venture."

Lachlan nodded, "Aye and for good reason. You landlubbers think you know how a ship works, we let you near the workings for an instant and the whole thing goes down in flames." He smiled, joking, and sat back again, "What exactly is it you wish me to do, Mr. Holmes?"

I smiled. "To use some of your quaint nautical slang, I wish you to _keep a weather eye open_. When you come across anything that may be of use, write it down and report it to me or give it to Watson and he will get it to me…I trust you to judge on the urgency of each piece of information. But do not allow yourself to be seen with either of us too often, for your own safety. Smith bears me a significant grudge…and I believe he will remember Watson's involvement as well."

I glanced over at my Boswell with concern. It was against my judgment to allow him to come at all, but there was no way he would have let me go alone, not with my still healing side.

Watson had not moved from his position of before, slumped against the wall, his head resting back on the seat…it took me only a moment to realize that he had fallen asleep again! Really, the man could sleep anywhere! And had done so on numerous stakeouts and when I took him out upon a case that involved unusual hours.

Lachlan chuckled very softly, going back to his study of the nautical instrument, and I sighed, closing my own eyes, applying my mind to the problem of Smith and his motives.

_**Watson**_

The docks of Portsmouth were far busier than those of London, which was only to be expected as Portsmouth was one of the largest shipping centers of Britain.

Holmes and I followed Lachlan as he weaved skillfully through the press of people, carts and the numerous stacks of packing crates. I could only cling to my luggage, keeping an eye on Holmes - he was showing some signs of soreness from his side and it was only too possible for an accident to occur in such a crowd.

Indeed it went against my medical training to allow Holmes to undertake such a dangerous task at all, he was notorious for overexerting himself while on a case and I had little doubt that this time would be any different. But I knew also that Holmes was one of the only men alive who could deal with Smith, and that nothing, not even I, could prevent him from going in pursuit of the fellow.

The best I could do was follow along behind and try to keep him out of trouble. _This_ was proving a little more than difficult, I thought, as I was forced to dodge a cart filled with freshly caught fish and in the process hit a stack of crates.

"You all right, Watson?" Holmes called back as I struggled to keep up.

"Coming!" I replied, getting a better grip on my bag and sprinting forward through the momentary lull in front of me.

I had not long to sprint, for Lachlan had stopped at last and stood, arms akimbo, gazing ahead.

"There she is, gentlemen," he said, his voice filled with the admiration that can be expressed only by a sailor. "The _Friesland_."

I stopped beside them, striving to catch my breath though it was somewhat lost by the sight in front of me.

The _Friesland_ was by no means the largest ship I had ever seen, but even without Lachlan's experienced eye I could tell she was a beauty. Long and sleek, with a narrow hull. White and shining with a black keel and three large stovepipes that rose like towers in the clear blue sky, bedecked with pennants and flags in anticipation of its departure.

Lachlan sighed, gazing at the ship the way a man looks at an attractive woman. "Is she not a sleek little craft?"

"Yes, indeed." I breathed, looking to Holmes beside me to catch his reaction.

He was quite as cool as ever, and viewed the ship with his usual analytical gaze, no doubt he was thinking only of the villain to be caught inside it.

"Yes," he said with a rather sarcastic air. "Quite worth the early hour."

Lachlan snorted and gave him a condescending look, then pulled his seabag up higher on his shoulder. "Well let's not be dawdling gents. C'mon."

We followed him up to the deck, at last away from the crowds, we gave our names and tickets and alighted. The seaman led us down the shining wood expanse, to one of the doors in the series of structures, situated in down the center of the ship.

He turned to Holmes and held out his hand, Holmes took it. "Well, Holmes, Doctor, this is where we part ways. This companionway here will lead you down to your cabins. Good luck to ye, I'll be in touch."

Holmes smiled, "To you as well Lachlan. Be cautious."

The midshipman laughed, "I'd be a fool not to keep a wall at my back, involved in business like yours."

He took my hand and shook it warmly, his blue eyes sobering slightly. "Keep an eye on this gent, Doctor. I'm afraid my duties will keep me fairly busy, I cannot be keeping to be pulling him out of the path of every knife-wielding villain here."

Holmes huffed and but I returned the smile.

"Thank you, Lachlan, I hope we shall see you soon."

He nodded and touched his hat. "I'll be around."

Then he walked off towards the back, or _aft,_ of the ship, joining a group of men whom I assumed must be members of the crew.

"He'll be all right, Watson." Holmes said patting me on the shoulder. "He's in his element now. Let us go and see our accommodations."

I nodded, picking up my bags once more. "Right, and then we are going to get a decent meal. Both of us."

My friend sighed and reached out to open the door to the stairwell.

"I certainly hope Meurnier's friend's tickets are worth what I paid for them," he muttered as we climbed.

"I am surprised you did not borrow the money from Verner."

"Really, Watson! You are never going to let me hear the end of that, are you?"

"Brilliant deduction, my dear Holmes," I said, aiming a mischievous grin at my friend's disappearing back as he turned the corner.


	16. Nights Enough

"Nights Enough"

_**Watson**_

"Oh, confound it!"

This frustrated remark, delivered in a tone of extreme exasperation, was accompanied by a colorful string of descriptive words I assumed 'Captain Basil' had picked up in his work at the London dockyards.

"Do you need help, Holmes?" I asked, glancing at him in the ornate mirror in my rather opulent stateroom – we were both trying to fix our starched white collars and ties before heading to the ship's lavish dining area for supper.

Holmes was having a bit of trouble with his bow tie, scowling and swearing softly as he wrestled with the offensive article of clothing. He had knocked on my door halfway through my toilet and begged me to let him finish fixing his appearance in my stateroom – it seemed that the family in the room next to his had a squalling baby. Holmes was not thrilled about the situation in the least.

Finally he managed to get the stiff tie fastened in a semi-straight fashion and struggled into his formal black jacket.

"You know how much I detest these things, Watson?"

"I do seem to recall your being rather out of sorts in formal wear unless the activity involved classical music or Shakespeare," I replied, brushing my own spotless jacket and fastening the buttons, adjusting my cuffs afterwards.

"Ugh. I look like Count Dracula," he suddenly said, peering curiously into the mirror at himself, his nose a few inches from the glass.

"Good heavens, Holmes – and you refuse to read _my_ stories because you think they are romantic drivel?" I cried indignantly.

He snickered, clapping me on the shoulder and grabbing his gloves from my bedside table.

"You have nothing on Stoker, old chap," he said with a grin, opening my stateroom door and gesturing for me to proceed him.

He shut it behind us and we made out way slowly to the deck, enjoying the salty sea breeze that was cooling the warm air.

"It is going to be a lovely night," I remarked, hoping for a little while at least to be able to forget that somewhere on board this ship Culverton Smith probably waited for us.

"Hmph."

"Oh, really, Holmes – it _is_ lovely, you can't deny that. Look at that moon! It looks so different when there is no London smog about to obscure it, eh?"

"Watson, you will always be a hopelessly incurable romantic," Holmes sighed, but he glanced at me fondly and I knew he was not really annoyed with me.

"And you will always be a hopeless skeptic."

"Touché."

The breeze had picked up, blowing its gentle way over the deck, and the soft glow of the steamer's lights shone with a comforting warmth over the long, sleek vessel, trimmed everywhere with bright brass and golden wood – as Lachlan had said, the Lansing must have paid a pretty price for this lovely ship.

We stood at the rail for several minutes, looking out over the dark water and the moonlight in watery reflection dancing across the wake of the ship as she sailed ever further from England.

"Not seasick, are you, old chap?"

"Not yet anyway," I replied ruefully, "just pray that no storms come up while we're abroad!"

I was rather prone to being a wretched sailor if I were already not in full health or if the sea were very rough, but the weather promised to be gorgeous for several days and I was not overly worried about my inclination toward seasickness.

For another minute we stood there, staring out over the water. A woman's light voice rang in a tinkling laugh from the women's lounge, and we could hear a small stringed quartet playing from somewhere on the large vessel. Other than that, the throbbing hum of the steam engines under our feet and a murmur of friendly voices were the only sounds to be heard in the stillness of the night.

"Holmes?"

"Yes, my dear fellow."

"Do you really think that Smith is on this ship?" I asked quietly, glancing at his aquiline face, very pale and serious in the moonlight.

"I do, Watson," he said at last, gazing moodily out over the dark waters of the Atlantic.

I shivered, and not from the cool breeze that whipped about us as we stood there by the rail.

I felt Holmes put his arm through mine and turn our steps toward the massive dining hall, his quiet strength giving me a small sense of calmness.

"We shall be very careful, Watson," he promised me, "and I told Lachlan to be wary as well. Smith may be on this ship, but there is no reason why something untoward should happen if we are careful and keep our wits about us."

We headed down a companionway to the dining area below, Holmes moving very carefully because of the stitches in his side.

"I wish I could believe that, Holmes."

"Watson, please trust me, and stop worrying," my friend said, his eyes dark with concern, "it will be fine, I assure you. Now chin up, old fellow, and let us see how much enjoyment we can gain from this voyage – we are not likely to get such a chance again!"

"Enjoyment? With a murderous deranged scientist on the loose?" I hissed, not wanting the people we passed to hear us.

"Oh, gracious, Watson, that sounds like one of those confounded H.G. Wells stories. Please do try to have a little fun, old chap," Holmes replied, glancing at me mischievously, "I am sure that you will find something to occupy your time. You know, I saw more than a few of those girls on the deck looking at you just now – full evening dress, Watson…"

"_**Holmes**_!"

He laughed outright at my absolutely mortified face, but as I spluttered for an answer I realized he had accomplished what must have been his goal – to get me to smile and take my mind off Smith. I finally smoothed down my jacket and glowered coolly and calmly at him.

"You are just jealous, Holmes."

"_**I**_?" It was his turn to be indignant, or at least pretend to be.

"Yes, you. What are _you_ going to find to occupy your free time on board? Chess tournaments? Fellow handwriting analysts?"

Holmes glared at me as we entered the dining area, and I grinned back at him, seeing that he was not really in earnest with his irritation. We seated ourselves at a small table at the side of the room – Holmes always preferred to keep his back to the wall if possible so that he could watch people and make embarrassing deductions about them as they passed.

A white-coated waiter with a French accent that I believed to be put-on took our order and went along his way.

"How an Irishman can fake an accent like that is beyond me," Holmes muttered, fidgeting with his napkin ring as he scanned the crowd slowly and methodically, occasionally shooting a random deduction in my direction, which I was only half-paying attention to.

"See anyone that could be Smith?" I asked nervously, also playing with the ornate silver napkin ring.

"No, but I cannot see very many people closely from this angle. I shall have to get hold of the passenger list at some point, Watson," Holmes said, finally directing his attention back to me, "and see if I can narrow the possibilities down a bit."

"How do you propose to do that, seeing as that information is highly classified?" I asked, taking a sip of my sherry.

"Really, Watson, need you ask?"

"Oh, no, Holmes – you'll get us thrown into the brig our first week out!" I moaned in dismay, not at all relishing the thought of breaking and entering a purser's office.

Holmes chuckled at my remonstrance.

"You used to argue with me on the strength that burglary is a crime in the eyes of the law, Watson. Now you are only worried about it being wrong if we are _caught_?"

"Yes, well," I spluttered, trying to cover my breach of British citizenry, "I – "

"Never mind, my dear chap," he returned with a grin as our waiter came back, "I shall in all probability do it at some point while you are making yourself a large number of female friends. You will not even miss me."

"Don't you dare go breaking into things on your own, Holmes, or I shall –" I had to break off as the waiter got within earshot, carrying our food, but I let my raised eyebrows and glaring eyes finish the thought for me.

Holmes poked at his food, not really eating it, and I found it hard myself to concentrate on the little appetite I had, my gaze searching out every man sitting alone, wondering from this distance if he were Smith.

Holmes finally shook off his melancholy and began to detail to me a little more about Meurnier, the French artist who sculpted that dreadful likeness of my friend, entertaining me with his story of how many tries it took for the sculptor to get the image to cast the perfect shadow; and after a few minutes I had pushed Culverton Smith and his deadly diseases to the back of my mind.

We finished out meal and our sherry and then exited the dining area.

"Shall we take a stroll round the deck, old chap, or try the lounge?"

"I would rather have the open air, if that's all right? It was rather warm in there."

"Certainly," my companion declared, gingerly mounting the nearest companionway steps with me close at his heels.

The promenade deck was ablaze with soft lights, casting sparkling beams of color and fluttering shadows on the many couples dancing under the brilliant white moon. The sounds of young laughter and converse followed us as we made our way past the partying passengers toward a group of comfortable-looking chairs on the far side of the dancing area.

Holmes expertly weaved in and out of the crowd of people, narrowly avoiding getting champagne spilled upon him by more than one person, and I followed in his wake, finally reaching the other side. He took possession of a comfortable couch and offered me a cigarette as I sat beside him.

"Thank you. How are your stitches holding up?" I asked as he offered me a match.

Holmes held the match to his own cigarette and then snuffed the match into the nearby ashtray.

"All shipshape and seaworthy, Watson," he said with a smirk.

I groaned at the bad pun but otherwise ignored it.

"Holmes, have you seen Lachlan since we first came on board?"

"No, I have not. But we cannot be in too close contact with him, Watson, if he is to act as a sort of spy for us among the crew. Midshipmen do not usually socialize much with passengers, especially not on such a large vessel as this."

I nodded thoughtfully in agreement.

"What do you suppose Smith is planning to do to the ship?"

"I am undecided yet, Watson. I have eight separate theories – all of which are decidedly unpleasant thoughts," my companion said, looking at me with a furrowed brow.

I swallowed hard, not knowing and not wishing to know what was going on in that overactive imagination of his.

"Pardon me, gentlemen, but would it bother you if I took that other chair there," a voice politely interrupted our conversation.

A tall, dark young fellow in full evening dress like ourselves was gesturing toward the chair across from us. As it was the only one available, he really was being over-courteous and Holmes graciously told him to go right ahead.

We chatted aimlessly for a few moments, and the chap told us he was a young lawyer from Essex who was taking his wife on an extended vacation, etc., etc. The chap rambled on and on, to Holmes's increasing irritation, until his wife suddenly appeared from the partying throng; and then he rose with the usual pleasantries and sauntered off with the lady.

"Ugh."

"Really, Holmes, he was a very nice young fellow," I said teasingly, seeing Holmes's disgusted face.

"Be that as it may, he was decidedly dull. What is it about being aboard ship that makes people think that everyone on it is an instant friend?"

"That is the usual attitude, Holmes – you just are simply _un_usual," I replied, my eyes glinting mischievously, "most people actually _enjoy_ making new friends, believe it or not."

Holmes snorted. "I did once. That was enough for me, Watson."

I smiled at the rather dubious compliment, finishing my cigarette and tossing it into the ashtray.

"As you were saying, Holmes, about your theories."

"What about them?"

"Holmes, don't be so infuriating!"

He laughed and stood, smoothing out the wrinkles in his jacket and walking over to the deck rail.

"And do not give me any of those 'you will see and hear enough before the voyage is over' lines, Holmes. I was not in on your confidences before with Smith – can you not take me in this time round?" I asked, very much in earnest.

I saw again that odd expression when I mentioned the Smith case flit across his face and he sighed, his light manner leaving him on the instant.

"Come out of hearing range of that infernal racket, Watson," he said, stepping away from the happy revelers further along the polished deck. After thirty or forty feet he stopped, looking out over the dark water for the second time that night, his lower arms resting on the brass rail. I joined him as he spoke.

"I think, Watson, that Smith intends to do something to the passengers of this ship, either collectively or selectively, just as he did the others. You remember that at first, it was only cargo ships attacked, and then passenger ships as well?"

I did not like the way this conversation was leading, but I nodded, my throat feeling very dry all of a sudden, and glanced over at his sombre face.

"Well, this is the biggest and most expensive ship yet to take off out of Portsmouth for the Lansing line. If he did something to it –"

"It would cause widespread panic," I whispered.

"Exactly. I cannot fathom yet what his motive is in these atrocities, but I do know that he has to be stopped, before we reach India. He _must_ be stopped."

Holmes's chilling statements swept away the former warmth I had been feeling, and I shuddered at the veiled meaning in Holmes's words about the man's atrocities.

"I am going to go poking about in the men's smoking lounge, Watson, to see if I can pick up any faint tremors indicating the location of this villain," Holmes remarked at last, snapping himself out of his reverie.

"I think I shall go back to my stateroom and turn in," I returned, "let me know when you get back, will you?"

"I shall walk back with you, Watson," he said on the instant, guiding me in the direction of our rooms, "I think it best that we not separate during this voyage if at all possible. Strength in numbers, you know, and Smith will be far less likely to attack one of us if we stick together."

I shivered again as the wind, rapidly dropping in temperature, blew with force over the long shiny deck.

"Holmes, I am worried about Lachlan. Do you suppose –"

"Watson, you simply must stop your fretting," my companion said gently, "Lachlan will be fine. Smith does not even know of his existence – but that is another reason we must not have much contact with him. It will ensure his safety."

We were nearly to my stateroom when my tired mind suddenly realized what Holmes had said earlier.

"Half a moment, I am not going back to that room," I said, "and letting you go to the lounge by yourself."

"I shall be fine, Watson, and you look as though you could use the sleep; it was an early morning," he returned, patting my shoulder reassuringly.

"Be that as it may, you said yourself that we should not separate on the voyage, and you are right as always," I replied stubbornly, turning us in the direction of the lounge.

Holmes grabbed my arm and pushed me back toward the staterooms, and I resisted.

"Watson, for heaven's sake, you are acting as if I shall disappear if you let me out of your sight!" he sighed in exasperation.

"The last time I left you when I knew we were in danger, Moriarty caught up with you," I said, my voice shaking despite my efforts to control it, "and I had to live with that guilt for three years. I vowed on the day you returned to never let that happen again, Holmes."

Holmes stared into my eyes for just a moment with a sudden shock of guilt at what I had said, and then his gaze softened and he slipped his arm through mine with a sigh, tugging me gently toward our rooms.

"Come, my dear chap, we shall _both_ turn in. There will be nights enough for socializing and investigating."


	17. Taking the Wind Out of His Sails

Chapter 17: "Taking the Wind out of His Sails"

Taking the wind out of his sails - Sailing in a manner so as to steal or divert wind from another ship's sails.

_**Watson**_

"Watson are you up to a bit of burglaring today?"

At my friend's complacent words the piece of sausage I had been consuming lodged into my throat and I began to choke. Holmes slapped me sharply on the back and I swallowed it.

"W-What?!" I coughed, reaching for my napkin.

"The passenger's list Watson, there is a copy kept in the purser's office. Come come man, I mentioned it only a day ago."

"Yes I remember quite well." I said wiping my mouth and fixing a glare on my friend, who stared innocently at the piece of kidney pie he was endeavoring to spear with his fork.

He met my face passively. "What?"

"Holmes, I understand the urgency in finding Smith, no man alive, save yourself, can comprehend the importance of the thing better than I, but is it really necessary to break into the private records of the ship upon which we are traveling? If we are caught then there is no way Lachlan can help us. He is a minor officer. And what you are contemplating is a serious offence…"

"Watson, Watson, Watson…you talk as if we are going to be caught."

"There is a good chance we shall be. We nearly were the last time. If that man had taken a stronger grip on my ankle - Lestrade got my actual description!"

"Now now Watson. That was different. Unexpected circumstances and all that. How was I to know that the lady in question planned to get her revenge on Milverton the very night we were going to burgle his house?"

This was true, Holmes had planned as well as he could for every contingency, but the event had made me far more weary of breaking the law. Such unseen events could strike again, and a million things could go wrong.

But there was a determination in my friend's gaze and attitude that dictated he could not be turned from his course.

I sighed and set down my fork, giving up all attempts to enjoy the meal like a normal person.

"Alright Holmes…just how are you planning to go about this?"

Holmes laughed and clapped his hands together. "Good man! I knew I could count on you." He laid down his own fork, not that he had eaten much anyway, and scooted his chair closer, dropping his voice in a conspiratorial fashion.

"The most obvious time will be at dinner, by far the busiest for the purser and indeed the entire ship. Your part will be simple Watson."

I sighed, bracing myself for the inevitable. Holmes paused in his explanation and gave me a reproachful look.

I glared, gesturing with my hands as I spoke. "Go on, I'm listening I'm listening."

Holmes snorted but, put his hands together and continued.

"You, my dear Watson, will not play the part of burglar this time but accomplice."

"How so?"

"There is a door at the back of the purser's office, and is kept locked, though it is well within my ability to open. I shall enter through that way and lift the list even as the purser remains…I need only a distraction. And you shall provide that."

"I rather thought it would be something of that sort…what shall it be this time? A lost cufflink? A violent collapse? Perhaps I shall be inexplicably dissatisfied with every meal that has come my way so far on this voyage?"

Holmes shook his head. "Nothing so colorful Watson, you want only to deposit something in the fellow's safe. You will be most insistent upon the matter, and quite unreasonable. He shall, I daresay, find you more than a handful."

I laughed. "You have great faith in my acting abilities all of a sudden…what shall I be depositing?"

Holmes smiled, reached forward and pulled my writing notebook from my jacket pocket…a very old and worn one, which I had had for more than a year already.

I laughed incredulously, but Holmes' expression did not fade. My laughter did.

"You cannot be serious?"

"I assure you Watson I am perfectly serious. You are a known writer and you hold strong suspicions that one of your rivals is after your work. You shall endeavor to convince the purser that your notebook, and your other work's if you have brought them…are important enough to deposit. He will refuse of course, and that will begin the very argument I need."

"And when I am taken away for harassing the purser?"

"You will not be my dear Watson, for I arranged with Lachlan this very morning that he should come by at the correct moment and break up the little affair. He is high enough on the naval hierarchy to deal with an aggravated passenger."

"What does Lachlan think of your breaking into a ship that he has sworn to protect?"

Holmes sat back in his chair. "He was happy to assist, as usual Watson. indeed I believe he has 'bent the law' far more often than either of us have…strictly in a good cause of course."

"Right," I pulled my plate back toward me and doggedly picked up my fork. I would be needing the energy. "How long will you need?"

"Eight minutes, our midshipman has assured me he will stroll by at precisely 7:15, you will approach the purser at 7:05…allow a moment or two for error."

I took another bite of sausage. "That remark inspires confidence."

Holmes laughed again and reached into his coat, pulling out a familiar, small leather case, and showing it to me before stowing it out of sight again.

His infernal lockpicks.

"Never fear Watson, the lock on this door is not a quarter as complicated as the one on Milverton's safe. This operation shall go as smooth as clockwork."

"I hope so." I said reaching for my cup, "I have no desire to spend the remainder of this voyage in confinement."

"After the price of our tickets? Hardly Doctor, the cavalry will come in time."

"I should hardly describe a seaman like Lachlan as just the cavalry. He's more like the entire fleet."

Holmes laughed and went back to spearing his eggs. His mind no doubt turning in anticipation of the events ahead.

_**Holmes**_

Watson adjusted his cravat for seemingly the hundredth time, we stood at the head of the steps leading down to the landing, and among other things…the purser's office.

"Not nervous are you Watson?"

My friend shot me a look, both apprehensive and somewhat excited. Though he would never admit it, he enjoyed the thrill and the risk of this particular game as much as I did. No doubt this quality bubbled up from the same obscure location as his pawky humor.

"Of course I am nervous…this scheme is absolutely mad, all your schemes are. You know sometimes I am glad I cannot read what goes on in your mind like you can me. If I ever got a glimpse of what it is that really goes on inside there I would most likely flee in terror and deny any further association with you."

I chuckled slightly, in good spirits despite his negative words. "Why else do you think I am so secretive old fellow. The world is not yet prepared…ah…we have only a minute…are you ready?"

Watson gave his tie one final tug, rolled his shoulder's staunchly and took firm hold on the bundle worn notebooks in his left hand. We had not been short a supply…my friend traveled with five or six of the things just as surely as he traveled with his revolver. And I had to admit that types of objects had proved useful in past incidents.

"As ready as I'll ever be."

I clapped him on the shoulder and we started down the steps, against the general flow of traffic, for most were now heading to dinner. We reached the bottom and I pointed towards the small, halfdoor to our right, already surrounded by patrons.

"There is your target Watson, don't forget to make yourself sufficiently obnoxious. Good luck."

"Be careful of your stitches."

I snorted and stood waiting as Watson thrust his way imprudently through the crowd, and a marvelous cacophony of outraged squawks and objections filled the landing…then I started for the back door.

_**Watson**_

The purser, a small, thin man with a ferret-like face, who might have been related to Lestrade, looked up as I barged forward through his clients and raised my voice over the well-dressed man he was currently speaking too.

He adjusted his glasses slightly and peered at me in some apprehension. Holmes had been right, the man was no goliath, in stature or will. Perhaps this would be an easier task than I had first supposed.

"I beg your pardon sir…can I help you?"

He said this in an insulting, sarcastic term but I pretended to take it literally and leaned forward, fixing an indignant scowl on my face and raising my voice to a loud and boisterous pitch…according to Holmes the larger the crowd I attracted the better.

"Yes you can sir! I need to make an urgent deposit into the ship's safe!"

"Very well sir, but there are a great many…"

The patron behind me tried to nudge in and I elbowed him roughly away.

"But you don't understand, this is a matter of the utmost importance. There is no time to lose!"

"I realize that it is an urgent matter sir, but these other gentlemen were here before you."

"I don't think you do realize, my property is in danger!"

"I can hear you perfectly well sir, there is no need to shout." The man said, leaning away slightly. I only leaned further forward.

"Smethles." Said the poor fellow to my right, "Perhaps you had better attend to him and then we can resume our business."

The small crowd murmured in agreement, though there were a few grumbles of cutting the line. I swallowed, this was too passive a reaction, Holmes needed a nearly six more minutes.

The purser sighed, and laid down the pen he had been jotting with. "Very well _sir_, do you have the object with you?"

"Of course I do! What sort of idiot do you take me for?"

The purser reddened and a vein stood out in his forehead but he went on passively, I prayed fervently that he did not have problems with his blood pressure. For my disturbance would no doubt make them worse.

"Then would you place it on the counter?" He said, and though his words were polite and formal they had a definite edge to them.

I took a bracing breath, trying to keep the heat from my face. It is no small thing for a writer to have his works openly mocked. Holmes had done it quite often enough, and I had no desire for them to be further abused by this snooty little, self-important man. I hoped Holmes appreciated this.

I lifted the pile of notebooks and laid them on the counter with a solid thud, the purser blinked at them, then up at me.

_**Holmes**_

I slipped, unnoticed by the crowd as Watson began his tirade, his basso voice raised to an admirable pitch, interspersed with the uneasiness of the crowd and the snooty comments of the purser.

The door was conveniently tucked away in a corner, away from the notice of any man that might travel the narrow hall. This was no doubt meant as a method of protection and further security but in truth only aided the criminal determined to break in by way of the door. I really would have to write a monograph on the more popular methods of burglary. Such a work would aid Scotland Yard admirably, if they ever deigned to refer to it.

I tucked myself in the little alcove that hid the door, and drew out my lockpicks, laying them before me. I examined the lock closely, selected one that looked promising and the tension wrench and slid both into the small slot.

My focus narrowed, to the small brass circle just below the knob, I shifted and moved the small metal tools minutely, feeling for the give or tension that would tell me what I needed to know.

The pick was too large, I selected another and slid it from the leather case, inserting it, shifting it as I had before.

This one was more promising, I could feel the empty space behind it's probing tip, and the cylinder that lay beyond it…but it was too wide, I put it back and selected another.

I had six minutes…I hoped that Watson was holding up allright.

_**Watson**_

"I am sorry sir, but the safe is a limited space, it is used for the storage of valuables."

"These are valuable, they are my livelihood."

"Perhaps you could find a nice safe place in your room sir. You must have a case, or a steamer trunk?"

"That is the first place he would look, I tell you the man will stop at nothing to get his hands on my work."

"There are more creative hiding places sir, under your bed, beneath your shirts…in the latrine."

Several people laughed at that, and my face went red without the need of acting.

"I do not appreciate your insolence Smethles." I snapped.

"Well maybe he dosen't exactly appreciate your's either. Let the man get back to his business and you get back to your 'writing' eh?"

_That had _to be an American, I swear they had to be one of the most blunt and tactless races on the face of the earth. I really had to remember to insist that in future Holmes pick a less personal topic for my part in his little charades.

My watch gave Holmes at least three more minutes, my argument with the purser was failing, I had to prolong it somehow.

I turned to the fellow who was still chortling at the cleverness of his comment. Yes…an American…his ridiculous 'cowboy' moustache proved it.

"And what pray tell do you know of writing sir?"

The fellow looked at the lady friend at his elbow, chuckling, then he looked back at me, sneering. "I know a great deal sir, I'm a reporter for the New York World."

Oh heavens… a newspaperman. At least he did not have a 'western accent'.

"The New York World is a rag." I declared, although in truth I had never read it in my life. "And an insult to the language that _we_ invented…you people are only borrowing it."

The reporter's face went a shade darker and pulled out of his lady's grasp, several members of the crowd, which by this time had grown significantly larger shot out their own comments, the purser's voice rang unheeded over our heads.

I swallowed, hoping I had not gone too far…I was in no mood for fistcuffs.

_**Holmes**_

The lock gave way with a satisfying click, and I eased the door open peering about at the small office, the purser was around the corner, leaning heavily over the counter, trying to placate the riotous crowd that Watson had gathered outside my window. Really I did not know why my Boswell complained so, he got all the fun parts of our little charades.

I gathered up my lockpicks and repocketed them, and slipped in through the door

It took only a moment to sneak across the room, behind the boxes and bundle's of possessions, to the desk.

For such a meticulously dressed little man the purser was a horrendous filer. His collection of papers made our reference books at Baker Street look organized.

I rifled through them quickly, listening with amusement as Watson insulted a man just outside the window…had to be an American. They were such a belligerent race, and always handy for a distraction.

Ah…at last my hand fell upon an untidy sheaf of papers that after a moment's examination proved to be the long sought passenger list.

I bundled them up, further scattering the paper's on the desk to cover my theft, hopefully the documents would not be missed until tomorrow…and even then there was a good chance that the purser would believe he had merely misplaced them in this mess.

The purser was still engaged with the crowd. As I watched, the poor man folded his arms on the counter and let his head sink forward into them in his despair.

I hurried back out, shut the door softly behind me and glanced at my watch.

7:14…Lachlan should be along any moment.

_**Watson**_

The reporter started for me his fists clenched, I stood my ground wishing that I could glance again at my watch.

Where in heaven's name was Holmes?

The crowd about us was pressing and several of its members hooting and jeering, hoping for a fight, most of the original crowd had slipped away, wanting no part of this mess. To be quite frank I did not either but being the source of it I was obliged to stay.

The American's face was a shade of deep scarlet from my insults and his moustache bristled comically. Rather like caricatures of Wild Bill Hickock that I had seen on various billboards in London. I had little doubt that he intended me harm.

And he might have succeeded, at least to agree, if at that moment, a loud voice boomed over the crowd, and an impressive figure in a black uniform pushed his way forward.

"Alright ladies and gentleman would someone be good enough to tell me what this business is all about so we can settle this civilly?" he said coming to stand between me and my would be attacker, his blue eyes twinkling.

The cavalry indeed!

The American tried to shift around him but Lachlan moved to block him. his hands loose and ready at his sides.

Seeing that he was not going to get to me the American turned his string of verbal abuses and complaints on the midshipman, who remained passive and unmoved. I highly doubted he was listening to a word of the man's tirade.

A hand gripped my arm and a familiar voice whispered in my ear.

"Well done Watson, our work is done, come along."

I snatched up the journal's from the counter, the purser did not take the least notice. And moved to follow my friend as he led me to the back of the crowd and away from it back to the stairs. Then Holmes broke into an outright sprint towards our cabins and I followed, only too glad to hear the raucous noise of the crowd fall away behind me.


	18. The Truest Anchor

_A trustworthy friend is the truest anchor for the ship of life._

_ Anonymous_

The Truest Anchor

_**Holmes**_

I slammed the door of Watson's stateroom and slumped against it, breathing heavily and literally doubled over with laughter at my friend's red face.

"One of these days, Holmes, you are going to cut those things too, too close!" he gasped, breathing more heavily than I after our unceremonious dash down the companionway.

I straightened up with an effort, still chortling.

"Your stitches, Holmes – are they are right?" he asked, mopping his forehead with his handkerchief and settling down on the bunk.

"Yes, yes, Doctor. Not a twinge. Sea air, you know, does wonders for your health," I said absently, riffling through the lists in my hands.

I heard a derisive snort from the bunk; evidently he did not think much of my medical prognoses.

I ran over to my own stateroom – that infernal child was still screaming bloody murder; oooh, this was going to be a long voyage – and returned in a moment with a blank pad of paper and several pencils, as well as my highest powered magnifying lens and a copy of _Who's Who_.

I dumped the items in question on Watson's polished cherrywood table, sending papers scattering everywhere.

"Really, Holmes, couldn't you perform whatever it is you are doing in _your_ stateroom, not mine?" Watson asked tiredly, his eyes half closed as he flopped down upon the bed.

"No."

"Whyever not?"

"Because that confounded baby insists upon broadcasting to everyone within hearing range how unhappy he is!" I said, shuffling through the papers I had stolen from the ship's safe.

"She."

"I beg your pardon?"

"The baby. It's a nine-month-old girl."

"Whatever. They're all the same, anyhow, Watson."

"My dear Holmes, there are just a few differences," he said, his eyes opening in amusement.

"Not when they're screaming. They all just sound like spoilt little monsters. Now."

I began to copy the passenger list onto blank sheets of foolscap. Watson got up and seated himself beside me after lighting the lamps – it was going on evening now.

"Holmes, are you going to copy that whole passenger list?" he asked incredulously, "that could take all night!"

I laughed at his look of dismay.

"No, my dear fellow, just copying only the names of the people who could be Smith. We can eliminate all the women and children on board, which will cut the list from roughly 500 to probably 200. Then from there we can eliminate all men traveling in families or those who are too young to be Smith, even in disguise."

"Even so –"

"Yes, even so it is still a daunting task. But I can't go marking all over this original list, Watson! We have to get it back before someone misses it!"

"I'll ring for some coffee," he muttered, hastily arising from the table and ringing the bell for our steward.

Ten minutes and three cups of coffee later, he was faithfully and doggedly scribbling out names along with me of the people we would have to learn personally what they looked like and if they could be Culverton Smith.

"How old is Smith now, would you say, Holmes?" he asked me after a good several hours, stretching for a moment and flexing his cramped fingers.

"Oh, probably five or six years older than I," I returned, shuffling the paper I had been filling to the back of the pile and grabbing a new one.

"That leaves a wide range of men who could be he in disguise," my friend said with a resigned sigh, picking up his pencil again.

"True. We have quite a long while to investigate them, though, old chap."

"That is rather a good thing," he muttered, starting to scribble again.

I looked up two or three hours later when the ship bobbed slightly in the water. Watson turned a little pale.

"I do hope the sea isn't getting rough," he remarked in dismay, looking at me with a comical helplessness that made me want to laugh, poor chap.

I got up and opened the porthole beside his bed, letting in a cool breeze.

"Not a cloud in sight, Watson. Probably just a large wave," I said reassuringly.

He moaned a little and went back to his writing. I looked out briefly over the still, dark water, the stars shining so brightly they were nearly as luminescent as the moon itself. And it was rather stuffy in the stateroom, come to think of it.

"Need a break, Watson?"

"_Yes!_"

He wasted no time in taking me up on the offer, and I laughed at the alacrity with which he stuffed the confiscated lists into the closest drawer out of sight and grabbed his jacket eagerly.

We lost no time in making our way up the companionway into the fresh cool air of the deck. Even past two as it was now, the ship's lights were still ablaze, and straggling partiers were still to be seen in various stages of intoxication, lounging about the deck areas.

The music of the evening had ceased, the musicians retiring for the night, but the sounds of laughter and social gatherings still were in abundance as we strolled along.

Watson was looking up at the stars.

"Odd, isn't it," I said, following his gaze, "how we can't see any of this in London, eh?"

"Mmhm. Yellow fog pretty much obscures everything there, doesn't it?"

"I like fog."

"I know. Unless it causes the crime rate to go down."

"Well, yes, naturally."

"Naturally."

The breeze kicked up in earnest, whipping the smoke from the stacks above us to go flying away on the wind, disappearing almost as soon as it emerged from the black funnels.

"Whew. I believe I could do with evenings like this for a good many more nights," I heard Watson sigh wistfully.

"Well, you are going to have five more weeks of it, dear chap, unless you are planning to swim all the way back to England," I said teasingly.

"I can't swim, you know that, Holmes."

"Yes, of course."

"These railings _are_ confoundedly low, now that you brought that to my attention – thanks very much," he said, glaring at me and peering cautiously over the iron rails.

"You think these are bad? The second and third class ones on the decks below us are even lower."

"Thank you very much for that piece of information, Holmes. Remind me to not go near those two decks," he replied dryly.

"I shall," I returned with mock earnestness.

"At any rate, this is rather a nice change from dreary old London, eh?"

"London is _not_ dreary."

"You said it was yourself, just the other day at breakfast. 'London has become an exceedingly dull city since the death of the late unlamented Professor Moriarty'. I heard you," said he with a sly grin.

"Dull, yes," I agreed, merely for the sake of continuing the argument, "but not dreary!"

A rather inebriated man came staggering past us on the deck, and we watched with some amusement as he slammed rather forcefully into an iron support beam, tipped his hat with a slurred 'I beg your pardon', and continued his weaving way down the ship.

"Mornin', gents," a familiar voice said from the shadows behind us.

"Midshipman Lachlan," I replied, warning him by his title that there were passengers near and to be wary.

"Your expedition of this afternoon was a success, I trust?"

The man's blue eyes were twinkling like the stars in that sky above us as he glanced between the both of us.

"Oh, yes, definitely."

"Tha's good, Doctor. I must say, I'm a bit surprised to see you both up at this hour – thought you didn't like early mornin's?" This was accompanied by a knowing grin of remembrance.

"Morning?" Watson asked incredulously.

"Yes, Doctor – it's Middle Watch now," Lachlan said, "or in you lubbers' talk, two-fifteen."

"_Two-fifteen!_"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Watson, we shall go to bed as soon as that list is finished," I said, elbowing him as he continued to glare at me testily.

"Then we had better get on it, Holmes – I am not going to have another day where I stagger round half-awake because of this infernal case!"

"Ooh, you'd better take him below, Holmes," Lachlan said, grinning at me, "if ye know what's good for you."

"Yes, I rather think you're right," I agreed hastily, pushing Watson toward the stairs, "keep a weather eye open, Lachlan, and good luck to you!"

"Right, Holmes, and likewise to you. Goodnight, gents."

We re-entered Watson's stateroom – that baby was still crying! Or at least crying once again! My friend tiredly retrieved the documents from the drawer where he had stashed them and spread them on the table.

"We're only to the letter R?" he asked dismally.

"Come on, Watson, it shan't be much longer," I said encouragingly, already busily scribbling away.

He sighed and picked up his pencil, rubbing his head wearily.

"Another headache?" I asked, suddenly concerned.

"No, no, just tired, that's all. Let's get this done, Holmes," he returned, stout fellow, doggedly copying the names of men who could possibly be Smith.

I started from Z and worked my way back up to meet him. The breeze blowing through the open porthole did much to alleviate the drowsiness of the room, and I was grateful for it – we had long since finished the coffee.

I had reached the end of the letter T, when I saw Watson's head start to nod forward – he was too tired to be doing this, poor fellow.

I was just reaching out to prevent him from slamming into the table when he suddenly jerked upright with a startled gasp.

"Easy, Watson," I said gently, "you need to go to bed now – we are almost finished, and I can do the rest."

"No," he said stubbornly, picking up his pencil yet again. I just as stubbornly pulled it out of his unresisting hand.

"Go on, old chap. It will only take me a few minutes."

"I'm not sleepy, Holmes," he protested, "I –"

He broke off rather suddenly, picking up a different pencil and hiding his face by bending over the paper.

"You what?"

"Nothing. Let us finish this," he replied, scribbling out another name.

I put my own writing instrument down and waited.

After several minutes, Watson glanced up to see me, elbows on the table, waiting patiently for him to look at me.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Well why are you not telling me what is wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong, Holmes, I'm – I'm just not sleepy, that's all," he said, his eyes telling me he wanted the matter dropped. I refused.

"Watson, it is almost three in the morning and we have had a long day and a longer night. You are nearly out on your feet – now go to bed and stop being so stubborn!" I cried in exasperation.

"I am not being stubborn! I just don't want to go to sleep!" he defended himself.

Then, as I realized what he had just said and he realized that I had grasped its hidden meaning, his gaze dropped again, this time in embarrassment.

"You've been having nightmares, is that it?" I asked softly.

Watson scribbled out two more names before nodding, still not looking up at me.

"Oh, my dear chap," I said, hating the fact that Smith had been visiting him in that horrible manner, "I suppose I need hardly ask what about?"

"If you need to, you are not very good at that precious deduction of yours," he replied gruffly, writing out three more names.

"You cannot stay up all night just because you're afraid to go to sleep, Watson," I told him.

"I'm not _afraid_, Holmes – well, not really," he amended at last, finally glancing up at me.

"Put the papers down, Watson, and get ready for bed. I shall be back in a moment," I said suddenly, getting up and leaving my friend's stateroom.

I went to my own cabin – thank heavens above that baby had stopped squalling at long last! – retrieved my pipe and tobacco pouch, and returned to find Watson had at least done what I asked. He really did look exhausted, and I cursed myself for not realizing earlier what the problem was.

"I want to get your mind off Smith, Watson," I said, pulling up a chair beside his bunk, straddling it backwards.

"And how do you propose to do that?" he asked, a tired smile quirking his mouth, "trying one of those psycho-analyses like that Freud chap is so fond of promoting?"

"No, but I can give you something to think about besides that madman. Did I ever tell you about the very first case I had after we moved in together at Baker Street? It was probably two weeks before the one you so floridly titled 'A Study in Scarlet'," I said, lighting my pipe as I spoke and watching his reaction.

"No, no, you didn't," he said eagerly, and it was an indication of how excited he was to hear the tale that he made no mention of my insulting his romantic writing style.

I folded my arms over the back of the chair and rested my chin upon them, occasionally lifting them to make some gesture to add to the story – just a commonplace little jewel theft, but it had its merits and also gave a little insight as to the struggle I had had in those early days trying to prove my worth as a private investigator.

Indeed, my struggle would have been even harder had my Boswell not taken it into his head to start publishing accounts of my cases. And whether I liked to admit the fact or no, his romantic stories were probably indeed the main source of my success and the making of my name.

Watson listened with eagerness as I unfolded the story – I had none of his innate gift for wordplay, but I did my best, trying to banish Smith and this infernal case from his mind; and after fifteen minutes, his eyes began to droop with sleep, and I knew he was struggling to stay awake.

I finished the tale, watching for his reaction, expecting to hear him ask drowsily if he could publish the thing or something of the sort – but it appeared that he had indeed fallen asleep at last before I could finish. Good.

I pulled the blanket up over him and silently closed the porthole. Then I turned down the gas except for one small lamp on the table – I would finish this task here in his stateroom, just to make sure no more demons from our past would disturb his sleep for a few hours at least.

And as I finished the list of names, I glanced back at the still figure of my dearest friend, thankfully sleeping peacefully, and I vowed anew to find the madman that even in our unconscious moments seemed to haunt us.

He had to be stopped, for all our sakes. And he had to be stopped soon.


	19. Undertow

Chapter 19: "Undertow"

_**Watson**_

"Well, scratch that one off as a red herring. Mr. Jonathan Springer, age 67 – why was he on the list, anyhow? He's far too old!" Holmes demanded irritably as we sat in the _Friesland_'s plush dining area at a small table, marking off names from our diminishing list of passengers.

"For one thing, it was after midnight at that point – who knows which names we might have put down!" I returned, scratching off the man's name, as well as seven others we had eliminated thus far today.

It had been a week since our escapade in the purser's office, and in that amount of time we had cut our list down by some careful and thorough investigating from 210 names to about 55 now. And we had not as yet located Culverton Smith.

"I am glad the purser didn't notice that you slipped that list back into his mess of files, Holmes," I remarked, finishing my coffee.

"So am I, Watson – nice idea of yours, lodging a complaint about that Wild West chap to distract him. What is it with you and antagonizing Americans, anyhow?"

I glared at him.

"Well, I mean, Watson, now you should be glad to hear only me criticize your writing," he offered.

I continued the glare.

"Or _not_, that would be fine as well. More coffee?"

I laughed. "You drink more coffee than anyone I know, Holmes – and that is quite a lot. It isn't healthy."

"It is rather less harmful a drug than some, old chap," he returned pointedly, downing his fifth cup yet this afternoon, "and besides, I am infernally tired; that child squalled all night long last night. I promise you, I did not close my eyes for a second."

"Why did you not switch rooms with me?"

"Too much bother. Besides, I thought the parents would surely be able to make the little blighter stop – not so, not even after four hours!" Holmes exclaimed dismally.

I laughed again at his disgruntled face and folded up my half of the list, shoving it into my inside jacket pocket and pulling out my pocket-watch.

"Half-past five," I replied in answer to Holmes's question, "shall we tackle a few more names?

My friend moaned and slouched in his chair.

"That is all we've been doing for the last seven days, Watson!"

"Well, you are the one who had the bright idea to track down 210 people on this ship!"

"I never said _all_ my ideas were brilliant, only most of them!"

I laughed and scooted my chair back from the table.

"Come along, then, let us do something a little more enjoyable."

"I am tired of walking along the deck, Watson."

"And of meeting new people, I suppose?" I teased as we exited the stately dining area, "nearly a hundred in one week – is that not a record for your Bohemian soul?"

Holmes smirked.

"I am not as social a creature as you, Watson."

"_NO_, really?"

"You know, sarcasm doesn't become you."

"I shall leave it to the experts such as yourself then," I replied as I followed him up the companionway. I heard a derisive snort above me and grinned.

We wandered about boredly for a little while on the promenade deck, and then we decided to explore the rest of the ship – Holmes wanted to get an idea as to its layout in case we had to chase Smith all over the vessel, a prospect that did not appeal to me in the least.

We walked the second and third class decks and discovered the crew's quarters, finally making our way back to the middle of the ship and the lounge areas.

"I say, Holmes – do you play billiards?" I asked suddenly, seeing the tables in several of the lounges, one lounge unoccupied at this hour of the afternoon; most passengers were napping in preparation for a late night.

"No."

"Not at all?"

"No."

"Oh, come on," I said, grinning at his flat denial, "you should learn."

"No."

"Yes, you should! Then we could play together."

"We play chess."

"_We_ do not play – you play and I get beaten. I do not find that enjoyable."

"I suppose you are wanting to teach me?" he asked, looking at me out of the corner of his eye.

"Unless you know how already."

He looked at my pleading gaze for a moment, and then his face softened, as I had known it would when I fixed him with that look.

"Oh, very well. But only until someone else comes in – I shall not embarrass myself in front of people, not even for you, Watson!" he warned.

"I embarrassed myself for you with that purser; I am sure you will live through the experience," I said dryly, secretly overjoyed that he had agreed.

"I have played before – once," he mused, looking at the glossy cherry table with its soft green felt as I racked the bright new balls, "maybe seven years ago? Some visiting dignitary at the Diogenes Club challenged Mycroft and me to play. There was a ridiculous bet involved – I never forgave Mycroft for that inane suggestion."

I laughed. "I can't see your brother bent over a pool table."

"I can't see him bent over anything except his desk in Whitehall – I am not sure if he _can_ bend over," Holmes muttered, taking the cue I handed him and looking at it dubiously.

"You do know which end to use, don't you?"

"I am not a complete idiot, Watson!"

"Well…"

"Oh, stop it! What happens first?"

I laughed and explained the basics of the game to him and broke, and after a very dubious look at the table and a glance round to see that there was no one watching him embarrass himself, he took a deep breath, aimed cautiously, and shot.

And missed both his target _and_ the cue ball entirely.

"Don't even say it, Watson!"

"I said nothing, Holmes!" I gasped, my face turning red from repressed laughter.

He sighed wearily and stepped back from the table.

"Well, what did I do wrong?" he asked impatiently, glaring at me.

I took pity on him at last – the only reason he was putting himself through this torture was to please me, and I appreciated the gesture more than he knew.

"You are holding the stick too tightly, Holmes, and you were watching the target ball, not the cue ball."

"The white one?"

"Yes, the white one," I said, carefully hiding my smile, "you have to watch it, not the colored one. Try again – you can have another turn."

"Isn't that against the rules?"

"Sherlock Holmes, play by the rules?"

"Good point."

He scowled in concentration, aimed again – and this time made a very passable shot, sending the 6 ball careening down the table to slam into a trio of my stripes with a satisfying _thwock_.

"I hit it!"

"Yes, you did," I said, this time not able to restrain my grin at his enthusiastic face, like a gleeful child just scoring a high mark on an exam.

"Do I get to go again?"

"No, you have to hit it into the pocket to go again, Holmes."

"Oh. Well, hurry up, Watson!"

I sent two balls in easily, rather proud of my difficult angled shots; and then, seeing that my friend was looking rather dismal once again, purposely missed the next shot.

"You know, you really would probably like this if you played more often, Holmes – the geometry involved should intrigue you at least," I remarked as he sighted again. "Aim a little more to the left, old chap."

He nodded with intense concentration and then shot, sending the ball neatly into the corner pocket.

"I did it!"

"Oh, well done!"

"Thank you!"

He missed the next shot, as was to be expected from a beginner, and I took my turn – I would have to jump the cue ball over one of his solids to make the shot, and his excited chattering was making me lose my concentration.

"Holmes?"

"What?"

"I cannot concentrate when you are blathering like that," I said slowly, carefully gauging the distance I would need to cover.

"That is the general idea," I heard him reply mischievously, obviously enjoying himself more than he had anticipated he would.

"It is against the rules to distract an opponent purposely."

"I, Sherlock Holmes, play by the rules? Really, Watson!"

I had pulled my cue back just as he said this, and my resulting laughter sent my stick askew and the cue ball barreled into the side pocket, knocking the eight ball dangerously close to the left corner pocket.

"Confound you, Holmes!"

"My turn now, right?" he asked gleefully.

"Yes," I growled, glaring at his excited face.

He took the cue ball out of the pocket, placed it on the table, and took careful aim.

"Holmes, wait –"

"I am perfectly capable of doing this, Doctor."

"But you can't –"

"Watson, please!"

"Holmes! You can't –"

_Thunk!_

He shot perfectly in a very nice, straight line and connected solidly with the ball, sending it neatly into the pocket.

"As you were saying, Watson, I can't what?" he asked, looking at me smugly with an I-told-you-so glance.

I sighed.

"You cannot hit the eight ball in _until the end of the game_, Holmes – it is not a regular solid," I said slowly, trying desperately not to laugh as he stared at me blankly.

Dead silence.

"I can't?"

"No."

"Oh."

I laughed aloud at his rueful face, so comical in its dismay.

"What happens if I do?" he asked hesitantly.

"You forfeit the game, old man."

"Well, it's a good thing we are not playing by the rules then, eh?" he asked brightly, taking aim again at a different ball.

After I closed my gaping mouth, I began to laugh again; and for the next hour, until we left for dinner, we were able to at last completely put Culverton Smith and his diabolical schemes out of our minds, temporarily at least.

_**Lachlan**_

"Midshipman! Midshipman!"

I came awake as the high voice of the seaman rang in my ears. Opening my eyes, I was able to make out the pock-marked face of Renie, a young lad just only out to sea. He was pale, making the marks on his face stand out like beacons on his cheeks.

I blinked about me at the dark cabin…judging by the porthole, I had been asleep no more than three hours, having just come off my watch. I swung my legs out over the edge of my bunk and rose to my feet.

"What is it, lad? What's wrong?"

The lad leaned heavily against the wall, clutching his chest and gasping for breath.

"Sir…one of the coal shovelers…he's…he's…"

I took him by the shoulder and pushed him down to a sitting position on the bunk.

"Easy lad, slowly. Tell me slow. Get your breath."

Renie sat with his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, his fingers clutching the red, uneven hair on his scalp. For a few minutes he breathed deeply than met my steady gaze, his crazed eyes somewhat calmer.

"Mr. Matlock sir - he was taken ill a day ago and all day he has not moved from his bunk…and just now…"

The lad swallowed, his eyes pleading with mine for some reassurance.

"Sir, he's gone off his head."

"What?"

"He's rambling something terrible…he's hot…it's some sorta sickness, sir."

A fierce fear gnawed its way into my stomach and I gripped him by the shoulders, alarming the poor boy further.

"He's sick?!"

"Y-yessir! Something dreadful!"

It could not be, we had only been a little more than a week out to sea…it was too early!

I took hold of my senses and let go of the lad.

"Renie…go and fetch one of the Doctors…now, please."

He nodded and leapt to his feet, hurrying out of the cabin and up the stairs to the deck.

I pulled on my jacket and hurried down the hall in the opposite direction. I knew Matlock, he was not a lazy chap, if he was in bed than it was a grave matter indeed.

It did not take me long to get to his cabin. It was dark, lit only by one lamp…and there was another seaman, one of his bunkmates I presumed, kneeling beside the bunk on which the sufferer lay.

The foul smell of sweat and sickness reached my nostrils, I choked slightly but kept my bile down.

The seaman looked up as I entered and gaped at me…his face grim, though not as white as Renie's.

"Midshipman," he said, his own voice thick, "Matlock, he…"

"Yes, I know," I said motioning him aside and taking his place beside the bunk.

The seaman had kindly placed a wet rag on Matlock's brow but it had had little effect. The ill man had kicked back his bedclothes and both he and the sheets were soaked with sweat. He was shaking and muttering under his breath…obviously out of his head, but lacking the strength to lash out sufficiently.

I hesitated, then reached out to touch his arm…it was icy cold to the touch…there were goosebumps on the flesh, and though the moisture of his body still beaded upon him he was breathing hoarsely.

The man was as dry as a bone; it was as though the had already broken his fever, but he was still delirious.

I wrapped my hand round the arm and felt that the muscles underneath were as hard as granite, the limb quivered slightly, like a steady engine. If I recalled Dr. Watson's words correctly than Matlock was not suffering the same fever that Holmes and I had.

Which meant that Smith had yet another exotic disease to do his dirty work for him.

I rounded on the seaman, feeling the cold, icy rage fill my breast and clear my mind.

"All sicknesses are to be reported to the infirmary immediately. Why wasn't I or another officer told?"

The fellow backed away from me, swallowing.

"Matlock told us 'ee was just tired. There wasn' no reason…and then he wouldn' let us…'ee was a strong-willed man was Matlock…told us to shove off and mind our own business."

"You were told to report illness." I said more sharply, cutting him off. "Cases like this can damage the wellbeing of the entire ship!"

"Midshipman it wasn't my fault - 'ee -" The fellow cringed, his voice rising to a whine.

I glared at him and gripped his coat giving him a slight shake to stop his flapping mouth.

"You are a member of this crew and you are as responsible as I. I want the name of every man who knew of this and failed to report it."

I hissed the words as him from between clenched teeth, my face only inches from his.

A sound…a terrible sound, arrested my attention and I turned to see Matlock twitching violently on his bunk, a whistling gurgle coming from his throat.

I shouted and went to his side, trying to hold him still - but his muscles were still rigid.

"Matlock...Matlock!"

But he never heard me, his eyes stared blankly ahead and he took a long slow, rattling breath…and fell still and as hard as stone.

The dread in my chest hardened to a cold calculation. I felt his neck and found no pulse.

He was dead.

I sighed a small prayer over the unfortunate seaman, pulling the bedsheets over his head and turning to face his mate again.

The man had gone, fled no doubt from fear of the illness and my reprimand. I would find him later. There was something more important to attend too.

Holmes and the Doctor had to be told, for it did not take a great imagination to understand that this would only be the first case of sickness on board…and possibly only the first death.


	20. A Black Flag

_What 'Even pirates, before they attack another __ship__, hoist a black flag.'_

_Gen Bela Kiraly, Commander, Hungarian National Guard_

Chapter 20: A Black Flag

_**Watson**_

Sherlock Holmes and I had spent a rather pleasant hour in the deserted billiards lounge by the time straggling men began to enter after the first dinner rush was over and start up games of their own.

Holmes was growing decidedly nervous, I could tell – his grey eyes were darting about every time he tried to make a shot, wondering if anyone were watching his lack of skill. But still he gallantly refused to end the game, knowing how much it meant to me, and I appreciated the gesture and finally took pity on him as the room began to fill and grow noisy with voices of the crowd.

"Come along, old chap, you put up a valiant effort," I said sincerely as Holmes ran a finger round his collar nervously, preparing to shoot.

I took the stick from him, and he relinquished it with alacrity and an audible sigh of relief.

"I have to say I prefer chess, Watson - this is definitely not my métier," he sighed, mopping his brow with his handkerchief.

"Nonsense – you did very well for the first time," I declared, starting to put the cues back into the glossy wood rack on the wall.

I was abruptly bumped out of the way by a figure I recognized. That blasted American newspaperman; they really were, although an energetic race, extremely rude at times in their enthusiasm.

I scowled but said nothing, not wanting to start a row in the middle of all these people – besides, I had already antagonized the man earlier in the week at the purser's. I had no wish to dredge up those still embarrassing memories.

"Oh, 'scuse me," the man muttered, turning round with an impatient frown, an oversized cue stick in his hand, "didn't see you there – well, if it isn't the aspiring _writer_."

This last word was spoken with a contempt that made me bristle, but I held my peace, putting our cues calmly back on the rack.

To my dismay, however, Sherlock Holmes was not in as much control of his tongue as I.

"Who is your rather ill-mannered acquaintance, Watson?" he snapped with an ire that made me stare – I had rarely heard such venom in his voice before.

"And who the devil are you?"

"My name is Sherlock Holmes, and obviously you are not acquainted with my biographer's chronicles or you would know that," my friend declared, his eyes flashing.

My irritation had faded to amusement at the way Holmes was more angry with the man than I was.

"Sherlock Holmes, huh? Heard of you a few times," the man said, studying my friend, "never cared much for romantic adventure stories, though. No good, the lot of 'em. Never cared for them."

"I see you never cared much for proper manners, either!"

"Holmes, stop it, let's go," I hissed in his ear, tugging on his arm as his face flushed with indignation.

"Yes, why don't you?" the American said, taking possession of the table we had just vacated, "I saw you playing and I gotta say you're without a doubt the worst player I've ever seen, Holmes."

"And you are the worst gentleman, sir!" I snapped – now _I_ was unable to remain passive, "and I will ask you to mind your impudent tongue!"

"What? It's true – you both obviously are clueless when it comes to a real good game of pool," the upstart said insufferably, racking up the balls.

"I would not wager on that, if I were you," I replied hotly, glaring at the smug American.

His ridiculous mustache bristled. "Oh, you're challenging me, eh?"

"I'm telling you to mind your tongue, but if you wish it, then yes, I shall challenge you!" I snapped, my patience completely at an end.

"You Englishmen and your ridiculous sense of honor," the man snorted derisively. Then his mustache bristled again and his eyes flashed with a hidden malicious glee.

"All right, Doctor, I'll take your challenge," he said with a leer, "I certainly hope you are better at pool than you are at writing!"

I glared back at the man for a moment and then stalked back over to pick up the cue I had replaced. Sighting down it, I saw it was slightly warped and selected another.

"Watson," Holmes had followed me over and was speaking in a low voice, "you don't know how to play American pool."

I laughed. "Holmes, I just taught you how to play American pool."

"What?"

"Thurston and I grew weary at the club of playing traditional English billiards, and when an American came through last year as a guest of his, we both learnt the American way of playing, just to break up the monotony. I find it more enjoyable than billiards, and I needed practice – that's why I started you off on it this afternoon."

"I wasn't playing billiards?" he asked in dismay.

"No, you were playing pool," I replied, grinning at his face, "I needed the practice, and you just needed to work on connecting with the cue ball!"

"But can you play well enough to beat a real American?" he asked incredulously, his worried glance passing from me to the smug-looking newspaperman.

"Probably not," I replied, a trifle uneasily, "but I shall definitely try. He's insulted us both now."

"I am inclined to agree with his sentiments regarding our confounded sense of honour," Holmes muttered nervously as the American glanced at me and then made a clean break, sending two striped balls solidly thunking into the corner pockets.

I swallowed hard – the man was obviously no amateur. He knew what he was doing, and this was not going to be easy.

"Well, good luck, my dear fellow," Holmes said warmly, clapping me on the shoulder, "I shall be backing you, you know that."

"Do _not_ place any bets on this, Holmes," I warned him, watching with dismay as the American sank another ball with a fantastic angled shot.

My friend grinned, squeezing my shoulder once more before walking over to a nearby bar stool and perching himself upon it to watch the game.

"By the way, sir, I do not believe we have been properly introduced," I said after he missed his next shot.

"Spencer, Dave Spencer," the man said curtly, applying chalk liberally to his cue.

I studied the table carefully, took a deep breath to calm my tense nerves, and took careful aim.

And sent two balls of my own into corresponding pockets.

The American looked at me with something akin to respect, and Holmes was grinning like a hyena from a few feet away. I felt my nervous tension start to drain as I blocked out the background noise and concentrated on the rules of American pool.

I sank another shot, an easy open straight shot, and found that I was going to have to do some fancy maneuvering to sink the only other ball I had a chance at.

I did some calculating, sighted along the stick, willing my nerves to be perfectly cool, and then shot. The cue ball jumped Spencer's 11 ball and smacked solidly into my 5, sending it into the side pocket and leaving me open for a good shot at my 3.

I sent it in easily and was left with no good shot at all for my remaining two balls. Even using the bridge, I was still unable to send another in – but I made sure to leave Spencer no shot at any of his balls when I did miss.

Or so I thought. The American sent me a baleful but triumphant glare and then lined up his shot.

There was no possible way he could manage that –

But he did, sending the cue ball to jump my 7 and send his 14 neatly into the corner pocket, bouncing off the green felt of the wall to come back and gently nudge his 11 toward the side pocket. The ball teetered for a moment on the edge and then dropped into the pocket.

This maneuver left him a clear shot at his 12, which he sent in easily, leaving him with only his 13 in the centre of the table. I still had two balls on the table.

I glanced up for a moment and saw Holmes standing with a group of men, all watching the game with interest, and the sight made me even more nervous than before. I swallowed hard as Spencer aimed a showy angle shot, planning to play off of my 2.

But I drew a deep breath as he misjudged the distance and sent the ball bounding toward the opposite end of the table, not hitting anything.

This was my chance to run the table, probably the only chance I would get.

I felt rather than saw Holmes's look of encouragement as I carefully and methodically aimed at my 2, which was rather close to the side pocket, and sent the cue ball gently toward it. It tapped the ball into the pocket with a soft _crack_, tipping it into the pocket almost noiselessly.

This left me only my 7 ball up against the rail, but the 8 ball was blocking the only pocket I had a good shot at.

All this time, about fifteen minutes I judged, Spencer and I had not said a word to each other, concentrating on the game and nothing else. I drew a deep breath as I considered my options, and the American leaned over to speak to me in a tone of deep contempt.

"I suppose you play well for an Englishman, and a writer," he said with palpable condescension, "but you really are terrible compared to the people _I_ am used to playing with. You might as well concede the game and save yourself the embarrassment."

I saw Holmes flush a bright red in anger at the American's words, and the sight gave me the courage to glare at the man and make my choice.

I set my cue down, aiming it determinedly.

"Far left corner pocket," I snapped, indicating which pocket I was going to attempt to send the 8 ball to after hitting my own in. It was a fantastic shot, but I had made such shots before. Could I do it again under pressure?

Spencer made some scoffing remark, reminding me if I missed the shot that I would lose the game, not that I had a good chance to win anyway, etc., etc., but I took a deep breath again and blocked out his annoying blather.

I sighted, gauged the distance and necessary speed, and shot.

My 7 flew down the table, slamming the 8 ball out of the way and toward the opposite end. My 7 went shooting straight into the other corner pocket, and I then turned my attention to the still-traveling 8 ball.

It was bouncing all over with the tremendous force of my shot, as I had meant it to, and it finally slowed near the pocket I named and rolled toward it, gradually losing momentum, until it rested right on the edge…

…and fell neatly into the pocket with a resounding _thwock_.

I had done it!

If looks could kill, Spencer would have stood trial for my murder – and I thought Sherlock Holmes was going to shout aloud.

I met Spencer's glare with a satisfied smirk – yes, I must confess to being rather proud of myself – and set my cue stick on the table, turning to a near-ecstatic Holmes.

"Well done, Watson!" he cried, his eyes shining with pride as he pounded me on the back.

"You were saying about clueless Englishmen, Mr. Spencer…?" I asked blandly.

The man let loose a string of curses that I was not familiar with – Americans, I never _shall_ understand them – and threw his cue down on the table, stomping off in a huff.

Holmes chortled with undisguised glee, and several of the men he had been standing with were shooting us admiring looks which made me rather self-conscious.

"Let's get out of here, Holmes," I muttered nervously, somewhat embarrassed.

"All right, my dear fellow. Oh, Barker? I believe that's ten pounds you owe me, my dear sir," Holmes said, gesturing to a rueful looking young man in a grey suit and ascot.

The rather foppish youth pulled out a well-stuffed wallet and handed a ten-pound note to my friend with a grimace, and then the two of us made a hasty exit.

"Ten pounds! I told you not to bet on that game!"

"I have implicit faith in you, my dear Watson – I knew you wouldn't let us down," he returned honestly.

"You have more faith in me than _I_ have!" I said, still astounded by the whole turn of events.

He laughed easily and linked his arm through mine as we made our way for a belated dinner.

"That was simply fantastic, Watson – I stand amazed," he said, seemingly more excited about the game than I was, "that cocky upstart never knew what he was up against!"

"Oh, really, Holmes!"

"I mean it, Watson, you were magnificent –"

"Holmes, can't we drop it, for goodness' sake!" I asked as we were seated at a small table, now thoroughly embarrassed by my friend's unusually ardent praise.

"I told you before, Watson, that I cannot agree with those who rank modesty among the virtues," he admonished, shaking his soup spoon at me for emphasis.

"Do _not_ shake your spoon at me!"

"There is no soup on it, Watson!"

"I don't care – people are staring!" I hissed, glancing round us.

"Let them stare. I hope this latest escapade of yours gets all over the ship, your soundly thrashing that scoundrel," Holmes replied emphatically, "the nerve of the man, saying what he did about your stories!"

I spluttered, choking on my port, nearly dropping the glass and hastily mopping up the little mess I had created in my shock.

"I beg your pardon?"

"What? Something wrong with the wine?"

"No, you idiot. Did you just actually _defend_ my writing?!"

Holmes suddenly looked thoughtful, as if trying to remember.

"Well, I suppose I did," he admitted sheepishly, grinning at me as I cautiously took another drink.

I shook my head in mock disbelief.

"Well, critiquing your stories is _my_ exclusive privilege," he said defensively, sipping his own glass and eyeing me for my reaction.

I chuckled. "I do not believe it. This search for Smith has addled your brain, my dear chap."

Holmes snorted, returning my grin just as our food arrived, and we spent a thoroughly relaxing half hour over dinner.

"Watson," my friend asked as we made our way after dinner up to the deck.

"Hmm?"

"Do you think you could get into another game of pool – I could use some reimbursement for these infernal tickets."

I elbowed him sharply, not amused, and he snickered mischievously.

"What are we going to do about Smith, Holmes?" I asked a few minutes later, as we walked round the deck.

"There is something, Watson, something elusive, that has been bothering me about this case," he returned, all his jollity of earlier vanishing, "some idea out there, subtle and intangible, that I should be seeing but I am not."

I nodded. "I have a bad feeling myself that we are missing something."

"Exactly. I think I shall go back to the cabin and smoke for a while," he said thoughtfully, his brows drawn and face pensive, "we cannot afford to miss any details."

I agreed with him.

"I shall stay up here for a while," I said, "I will be sure to stay in a crowd and take no chances alone." He had looked worried when I first suggested this.

"Well, make sure you do," he admonished, "I don't want to have to find another chronicler."

"I doubt you could find anyone else to put up with you," I returned with a smirk.

He laughed.

"Right then. And Watson, don't come down to the cabin by yourself. I shall come back up and get you in say, three hours? That will give me time for several pipes."

"Sounds fine, Holmes," I agreed, rather glad of the precautions for our safety _and_ the fact that I would not have to stay in that tiny stateroom while Holmes filled it with his poisonous atmosphere.

I had actually made several friends thus far on the ship, and I welcomed the chance at a more extensive social life that a ship such as this offered. I would find plenty to do for three hours while Holmes did his impression of a human chimney.

Holmes saw a group of passengers heading down our companionway and moved to walk with them so that he too would not be alone, and I moved closer to the brightly lit portion of the promenade deck where all the couples were dancing or standing by the rail, talking and looking out over the water.

All seemed still and calm and quiet, almost as if Smith and his machinations were just some distant murmur of thunder far away in the night sky. As the balmy sea breeze whipped about me, I looked out at the sunset's gorgeous hues and felt a little peace for the first time in a while.

"Doctor!" a voice suddenly hissed, breaking into my reverie. I turned round warily.

A familiar figure, uniform in slight disarray, came forward from the shadows of a companionway.

"Lachlan!" I said in a loud whisper, meeting him halfway and moving back into the shadows so we would not be seen, "what is it? I thought you came off your watch a few hours ago and would be asleep by now."

"I was, Doctor," he said, and I could barely see in the dim light a look of dread and horror upon his honest face as he spoke, "I was awakened by a lad in the crew's quarters."

"What is wrong?" I asked, an icy dread filling me, not wanting to hear the answer.

"Smith, Doctor," Lachlan stated, his normally strong voice slightly shaken, "he's claimed his first victim, not an hour ago. The man is dead."


	21. Stormy Petrel

Many thanks to Pompey who came up with Watson's diagnosis for this disease!

_Stormy petrel – a sea bird which heralds a coming storm._

Chapter 21: Stormy Petrel

_**Watson**_

"Dead?"

I heard my own voice break at the horror of the thing.

Lachlan nodded, his face grim.

"I'm afraid so, Doctor; he took ill not two days ago. I was not alerted of the fact. The bloody idiot was tryin' to hide it and his mates helped him."

I cursed under my breath as the seaman stared at me steadily.

"You all right?" he asked.

"Yes." I said distractedly "Yes, I am fine."

"Where is Mr. Holmes?"

"In the cabin, going over the case."

"You'd think he solves more cases from his armchair than at the scene of the crime."

"You'd be surprised."

"Well." The seaman squared his shoulders. "You're his second, that puts you in charge, Doctor. I am at your command."

I nodded slightly. This development was so sudden and so unexpected it had thrown me completely off balance.

"Have they removed the body yet?"

"No, the ship's doctor is still looking at him. We may just catch him if we're lucky."

"Right. I shall get Holmes, you try to stall them."

I turned to hurry after my friend and was halted by the sailor's cautionary grip on my arm.

"Alone, Doctor?" His blue eyes shone gravely out from his weathered face.

"Yes, alone - there isn't time. I'll take my revolver on the way back, but hurry, Lachlan."

He nodded with a bracing smile and laughed suddenly.

"I would hate to be around if the captain discovered you were had your own firearm aboard Doctor…not even _I'm_ allowed one. I'll meet you in the aft stairwell."

I smiled and hurried down the dark staircase towards our staterooms, my senses on full alert. I had not told Lachlan the real reason why I wanted to go after Holmes.

I did not want to leave him alone for a moment longer than necessary, not now that Smith had actually struck.

I made the very brief journey without incident and was soon at the door of Holmes's cabin. I knocked loudly and opened it without ceremony to be met with a fog of smoke.

My friend jerked upright from his position on his bunk, startled by my abrupt entrance. The dangerous scowl on his face changed to one of concern.

"Watson! Did I not tell you I would come up to get you? I thought we were agreed…" He stopped, seeing the expression on my face.

"What has happened?"

"One of the crewman." I gasped quite unable to finish the gruesome fact.

"Ill?"

I shook my head.

"He's dead, Holmes. Lachlan has gone to retain the body."

Holmes sprang up from his seat and threw tossed down his pipe. "Where?"

"The aft of the ship – crew's quarters."

He was out the door and up the stairwell in a moment and I followed at his heels. We made our way swiftly to through the evening crowds on deck to the stairwell at the back of the ship which led to the crew's quarters and the boiler rooms.

We only just entered the compact staircase when Lachlan came quickly up them, his face breaking into relief at the sight of us.

"He's only just finished examining the body…he's gone to report to the Captain. I can promise you ten minutes at least."

"Good man," Holmes said as we followed him down the stairs.

"Stick close," the seaman said. "You're not s'pposed to be down here, but no one should bother about it while I'm with you."

We did as we were told and he led us swiftly through the shadowy halls to a small cabin that contained a set of double bunks. In the middle of the floor on a stretcher lay a sheet-draped form.

"No guard?" I asked.

Lachlan nodded.

You're lookin' at him, Doctor, which is the only reason we have this chance. I suggest you hurry, or we'll be answerin' quite a few sticky questions."

Holmes was already fully preoccupied, kneeling beside the body and tossing back the sheet. He hissed between his teeth at the stark, rigid face of the dead sailor.

"Watson." he said softly, beckoning to me.

I knelt on the other side of the body and made a cursory examination, taking note of the rigid posture which had frozen his facial features into a horrible grimace.

"This is not normal rigor mortis," I said, "the germ attacked his voluntary muscles…it's very much like lockjaw. What were some of his other symptoms, Lachlan?" I asked, looking at the seaman who stood in the doorway, one ear cocked for the return of his superiors.

He sighed and folded his arms, looking uneasily at the corpse.

"His mate's said his first complaint was fatigue; he took to his bed and then never left it. By the time I got to him he was shaking and twitching, nearly as stiff as he is now. He was delirious, didn't even know I was there."

"Did he have a fever?"

"No, just the opposite. He was covered in sweat but as cold as a fish. He had trouble breathing right before the end."

"Another disease entirely." I said grimly. "It attacked his sympathetic nervous system directly to the brain. His core body temperature plummeted and then the convulsions began, rather like violent shivering at the start. Delirium was inevitable."

"Which means Smith probably has an army of germs at his disposal," Holmes muttered grimly, "I feared as much."

My friend was searching the body methodically, looking in pockets and at the fellow's hands. After a moment he gave a frustrated scoff and drew the sheet back over the nightmarish face.

"There is no data…nothing that would single him out to Smith. I fear he is just another laboratory rat."

"You mean he is choosing victims at random?" I gasped, sickened by the idea. Such an idea, such a disregard for life was inhuman.

"Pleasant fellow, this Smith," Lachlan growled, his hand clenched on the doorframe, his teeth bared and his lips curled in disgust.

We had no time to discuss the subject further, however - for at that moment the seaman straightened like a dog with his ears pricked.

"You gents had better hightail it," he said. "I'll join you at the top of the stairwell if you'll wait for me a moment."

"You are already cutting into your period of sleep, are you not, Lachlan?" Holmes said.

"Aye, but there is no rest for men with a ruffian like this Smith about," he retorted, motioning us hastily out of the room.

Holmes gripped the sailor's shoulder for a moment in a silent gesture of thanks and admiration and then hurried down the corridor.

"Come on, Watson."

We reached the top of the stairs quickly, fleeing the grim lower levels of the ship. Once there, I leaned heavily against the iron rail and took deep breaths of the cool, sea air.

The body, the likes of which I had not seen often, and the concept of Smith striking down innocent men for his own purposes made my blood run cold. That terrible white face had called to mind the countenance of Bartholomew Sholto in the _Sign of Four_, illuminated by the moonlight, frozen in a terrible grin of death, victim of the paralyzing poison that was on the exotic thorns we had discovered.

Altogether too many gruesome memories were being dredged up in this case.

Only a moment later there were footsteps in the stairwell and Lachlan joined us, still rather stony-faced.

"Can we talk in one of your cabins gentleman? I don't much fancy returning to the lower decks quite so soon. And I would very much appreciate being brought up to speed with whatever it is you've been investigatin' this past week."

Holmes nodded, "The Doctor's cabin should suit admirably; I'm afraid mine is still a bit smoky. Is that all right with you Watson?"

"Quite," I said, leading the way. "I have no desire to sit in that poisonous atmosphere."

The other reason for the vacancy of Holmes's rooms was making herself known with her usual alacrity and volume. Even with an entire cabin between us her cries were easily discernable.

At the squalling sound Lachlan grimaced slightly and shot the opposite wall a look.

"How do you gents stand that? Do you ever get any sleep?"

"With difficulty, and no," Holmes said, following behind us and shutting the door, which only succeeded in dimming the sound slightly.

I settled on the bunk and Lachlan took one of the chairs, leaving the detective room to pace between the entry and the porthole, his arms folded and his head sunk on his breast.

We watched him for a few moments in silence, and then I cleared my throat.

"What does it mean, Holmes? What is his purpose for doing it?"

Lachlan glared down at his feet, which he'd crossed before him.

"He doesn't need a reason, does he? He's just a madman, no rhyme or reason to it. Picks men off at random like flies on a wall, just like he did the ships."

Holmes paused in his pacing, coming to a stop in front of the small round window.

"No."

He raised his head and his eyes were sharp and deadly serious, as I had only seen them in times of crisis.

"No, I'm afraid it is not that simple. You are correct in thinking that he cares as little for the lives of others as flies on a wall but he has a definite end in mind. He may be a madman but he is still devilishly clever."

"What is his plan then?" I asked. "It can't be money, for he could have sold the ships and the cargo…I do not see how this endeavor could bring him wealth."

"Revenge?" Lachlan suggested.

"Neither," Holmes announced, one hand fingering his chin, his long index finger against his lips. "and both. Do you recall, Watson…his reaction at the end of our first encounter with him?"

I shuddered at the memory of the struggling and cursing man, the threats he had spat at Holmes while the constables had dragged him away. Holmes had remained on his bed throughout, greatly weakened by the whole ordeal, and I had been hard pressed not to stand protectively in front of him so great had the wrath of the specialist been.

"Only too well, Holmes."

Holmes did not seemed the least bit galled by the memory but had once again resumed his pacing - though more slowly, thoughtfully.

"During the time he spent in Sumatra those diseases became his pet hobby, and later his greatest ambition. You yourself described to me the ardor he showed towards them when you went to his office to fetch him for me."

"He is doing this for his passion?" I asked, further disgusted at Smith's character.

"Is that why he infected the ships?" Lachlan added, his face clearly displaying his dismay at the still unresolved issue.

Holmes nodded slowly.

"In part, I fear you are right. The routes of all those ships passed in close proximity to Sumatra, past Indonesia, and it would be little matter to infect them with a contagious disease. But that is not the sole reason."

"You mentioned something about a scandal back in the Lansing offices." I said quickly. "Was he trying to ruin the line? For some past grievance?"

Holmes shot me a smile as he passed, "Very good, Watson. Yes, he wanted the ships to be discovered. But not because he wanted to ruin the line…they were just another pawn."

The detective paused again coming to a halt just before us.

"Smith dedicated his life, before and after his imprisonment, to the study of his diseases…he wanted money and revenge of course but not those were not the sole motives. I am convinced that what he craved most, even before his attempt on my life, was recognition."

"Recognition?"

"Yes…for his work. You see he was not satisfied merely to dabble in such practices, he wanted to be recognized as _the_ leading specialist in such matters."

"He plagued the ships to get _fame_?" Lachlan said.

"Precisely," Holmes pointed a finger at the seaman leaning against the wall of the cabin. "He first tried cargo ships, but they went relatively unnoticed. So he moved on to passenger ships, and the line proved too adept at hiding them. _This_ ship…is his final shot. A vessel large and prestigious enough that it cannot possibly unnoticed."

"So he begins to infect men on the ship…and begins to attract attention," I said as the fog of surmise rolled clear from my mind.

Of course Holmes was right – this could be the only explanation.

"A few deaths, several cases of illness, and all of Europe will be made aware. They will be desperate for a deliverer and at the moment of crisis he will appear, armed with his antidotes and special knowledge of said diseases. It will, of course, all be regulated. Not even Smith would be foolish enough to spread a contagion loose on the ship with himself aboard. He is in strict control of the whole operation."

I sighed and put my head in my hand.

"Insane…he is completely insane."

"He would _have_ to be, to think of such a scheme," Holmes said impatiently pacing again. "This will be only the first of many deaths I am sure, and he will move up through the crew to the passengers just as he did with the cargo ships to the passengers."

He turned to Lachlan.

"You are certain there have been no other signs of illness other than this one case?"

Lachlan shook his head.

"None so far. But the way you speak of him it will not be long...what have you done so far to locate him? Have you made any progress with the passenger list?"

"Little enough, I will bring you up to par. Watson, will you be good enough to fetch my pipe for me? Perhaps between the three of us we can come up with a plan to net this fish before he swallows another hapless victim."

I left Holmes describing our investigation to the seaman and hurried next door to his room to fetch the discarded pipe and his tobacco pouch.

The smoke from his brief period of meditation had not dissipated, but I was able to find the objects in question among the fog and scooped up the small pile of post that lay beneath it.

Upon my return I handed these to Holmes and he proceeded to light his pipe with a murmur of thanks. I retained the pile of post and sifted through it absently, noticing that it was mixed with the pile of pound notes that Holmes had won betting on me earlier - they were lying on top of a white, blank envelope.

I sighed and waved this at my companion.

"More of your winnings, Holmes?" I asked.

My friend smiled innocently over his pipe and turned to answer Lachlan's inquiry about the matter, embarrassing me further as he elaborated on the game to the seaman.

I opened the envelope absently to see what further damages my friend had caused his fellow spectators.

I cursed slightly as my hand came in contact with a sharp edge of something inside and I drew out to see that it had caused a small gash on my index finger, drawing blood.

Holmes heard my exclamation and startled me by gripping both my wrist and the envelope. His fingers were as hard and steel and I looked at him.

What I saw disconcerted me. His face was quite white and there were lines of tension along his jaw that had not been there a moment ago.

He scrutinized my hand for a moment and then took the envelope and turned it upside down. Something thin and metallic fell with a clink to the floor and a piece of paper fluttered down after it.

Lachlan bent to examine them and froze at Holmes's words.

"Don't touch!"

He shot Holmes a look just as startled as mine had been and paused, his hand outstretched. He pulled it back as one would from a brand.

"It's a razor blade," he said. "Like the tip of a penknife…one that would be used for cutting paper."

Holmes swallowed, and his grip on my wrist had not slackened.

"And the note...what does it say?"

Lachlan read it silently than turned his face up towards us. I felt my heart plummet not only at his expression but the words that followed.

_"Mr. Holmes, Do not think that your activities, or your presence has gone unobserved. You have beaten me once, there will not be a second time. You are very near your end - I shall not sit and wait to watch you die as I did once before. Before the night is through you __will__ die in the knowledge that I have killed you. _Smith_."_


	22. The Night is Through

_"Before the night is through you will die in the knowledge that I have killed you. _Smith_."_

Chapter 22: The Night Is Through

_**Watson:**_

For a stunned moment, my disbelieving ears did not register the words Lachlan had just read aloud from the paper that had accompanied the tiny instrument of death now lying on the ground.

Then they hit me with all the force of what they truly meant.

I was – I was going to die.

There had been one of Smith's diseases on that razor blade in that envelope addressed to Holmes, and I had cut myself on the sharp edge. I had been infected. I did not want to die in such a horrible manner as that sailor!

That selfish notion, I am ashamed to admit, was my first thought. However, my second an instant later was an ironic feeling of gladness that I had been the one to open the envelope, not Sherlock Holmes.

But judging from the absolute, unmitigated terror in my companion's eyes, he most definitely did not share that feeling of gladness. I have never seen my friend look so petrified as he was that instant.

The fingers that still gripped my wrist had turned icy cold, and his thin face had gone white as a sheet.

I was not feeling much better than he looked, and I weakly slumped against the wall, trying to deal with the knowledge that I was going to die before the night was over. Smith had been quite clear about that point.

And such a sordid way to go, too. I had faced death, what I thought at the time to be _certain_ death, many times – in Afghanistan's war, my illness in India, and in the company of my friend Sherlock Holmes – but this, this was a totally different thing than facing a gunman or a criminal gang or some such tangible danger.

This was inexorable, unyielding death, that offered no chance whatsoever for escape. I would become the second casualty on board the _Friesland_, following that poor sailor into the next life before the night was over. And we could do naught about the fact.

And I realized now that I was afraid to die. I had always, throughout my life, feared very few things; I was a soldier – but dying of an unknown and excruciatingly painful disease had not crossed my mind until now. And I was scared.

I pulled my wrist free of Sherlock Holmes's vise-like grip and took a step backwards, not knowing what to do, what to say – all this time there had been the silence of death in the small stateroom. I clenched my fist around my infected finger, trying to somehow get a grip on the emotions that were roiling under my exterior, attempting to hide my fear.

But when I made the mistake of looking at Holmes's face and saw that he had given up trying to hide his own feelings, I nearly lost my composure. I had to get out of there. I did not know where I needed to go, but I had to get out.

I started for the door but Holmes intercepted me, gripping both my clenched hands in his own trembling ones.

"You cannot run from this, Watson," he said shakily.

"I can't sit here and – and just wait, Holmes!"

Lachlan had quietly picked up the sharp blade by shoving the paper under it, and he now tossed the deadly object out the porthole. Then he quietly and tactfully left the room, shutting the door silently behind him, leaving the two of us standing there looking helplessly at each other.

My breathing was coming in short gasps and I felt as thought I were going to be ill – was that a symptom? Or just my nerves? What did it matter, which it was – it was only a matter of hours at any rate!

"I need air," I finally managed to choke out, jerking my hands free and fumbling for the doorknob of my stateroom.

I made it out into the corridor and had stumbled up the companionway before Holmes caught up with me on the deck.

"Watson, stop!"

I took a deep breath and walked over to the rail, letting the calm sea breeze blow about me for a moment, cooling my throbbing head – was a headache a symptom as well? What of this was the disease and what was only my mind playing tricks upon me?

I stared morbidly out at the water, knowing it would be the last night I would be able to spend on the deck of this ship, listening to the laughter and sounds of social gatherings in the lounge. It was so – so unfair.

And I was going to leave Holmes to face Smith alone after tonight – he would have to finish the case up alone. And he was careless enough already about his own safety; grief would make him far less watchful.

Why had I opened that envelope and unthinkingly shoved my hand inside it? Why had I not been more wary? I knew as well as Holmes that Smith worked in nasty underhanded methods such as that – why had I not been on my guard?

I felt a shaking hand tighten on my shoulder and knew Holmes's thoughts were probably running along the same course as mine.

"Dear God, what are we to do?"

His choked whisper was filled with a despair and hopelessness that I had never before heard from him – and it nearly brought tears to my eyes at the thought of the guilt he had to be feeling. The letter had been addressed to him, after all.

Thank God he had been too preoccupied to open it. I would not have been able to survive losing him twice. Scared as I was, I knew it was better this way. Now at least _he_ could still be left to stop Smith from killing yet more innocent people.

"Promise me you'll stop that man from what he plans to do, Holmes," I said in a low voice.

His hand tightened convulsively and if I had not known him better, I would have thought he was choking back a sob. I could not look to see what the half-strangled noise really was.

"Watson, I – I –" he stopped as his voice shook, waiting to be back under control once more. I glanced at him, but he was just staring out over the dark water.

"Why the devil did you open that envelope!" he exploded at last, his total misery evident in every word. "It was addressed to me! Why were you opening it anyway?" He kicked the bottom rung of the iron rail angrily.

"I am glad I did," I snapped back at him, taken aback at his vehemence, "I could not take losing you again, not a month after your return, Holmes! And I don't think I could stand watching you die slowly like I thought you were, back when Smith tried it the first time!"

Our voices had raised considerably, and as a passerby stared at us, I dropped my tone and my gaze, not wanting to see the guilt in my friend's face.

"I shall never forgive myself," Holmes gasped, leaning on the rail, looking as if he were going to be sick.

I was feeling rather nauseous as well – another symptom, I supposed. I turned back to the ocean's dark depths and stared out at the pale shimmering moonlight dancing on the waves, rubbing a hand across my face uneasily.

"What's wrong?" Holmes asked sharply.

"Other than the fact that I'm a walking dead man?" I demanded, my nerve shot to pieces.

At the horrified grief that shot over his face when I spoke, I was instantly filled with remorse – this was hard enough on him without my losing my grip on control.

"I – I am sorry," I said shakily, taking a deep breath and trying to regain my nerves.

"No, old chap. I am the one who should apologize," he whispered miserably, "why in heaven's name was I not more watchful?"

"You cannot blame yourself, Holmes."

"Yes, I can! Why didn't I stop you! It was my mail, after all, and I suspected Smith would go after us! And now, even with all our precautions –"

He broke off as his voice choked, and he walked away from me to lean upon an iron support beam, resting his head on the cold metal, staring morosely out over the water.

I was acutely aware of a woman's laugh from one of the lounges, of the ship's stringed quartet serenading the late diners, of the wind blowing by and setting the gas lamps swinging; and most of all, I was aware of the fact that this was my last night to hear them.

Holmes walked back over to me just as a fresh wave of fear swept over me like an icy blast of water, threatening to destroy what little composure I had left. I realized I was shivering only when Holmes's strong arm went round my shoulders in a rare gesture.

"What – what are you feeling like, Watson?" he asked hesitantly.

"I – don't know," I said unsteadily, "nothing yet, other than nerves, I suppose."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes."

He sighed, and we stood there for several minutes in silence, lost in our own thoughts.

"Holmes."

"Yes, my dear fellow?"

"I – I don't want to just stand here, or just sit in our stateroom waiting," I said at last, knowing I would go mad if I had to simply sit round and wait for symptoms to show, "can we – do something?"

"Of course, old fellow. You have but to name it."

I managed a small smile at his deathly pale face, ashen with a deep grief-stricken worry.

"Would you like to learn how to really play billiards?"

I saw, to my eternal surprise, moisture well up and dim his clear grey eyes – but only for a moment; the next instant, he had reverted back to that normal mask he took refuge behind to hide his feelings from the world.

"I should be delighted," he replied softly, taking my arm, and we headed for the least populated lounge.

We found one that was relatively unoccupied for the simple reason that all the tables in the room seemed to be not level and half the cues were warped. But at that moment we were looking more for solitude than first-class playing equipment.

As I began to try to explain the rules to Holmes, I could tell that he was not really paying attention. And for that matter, neither was I. But we gave it a game shot, anyhow.

An hour into it, I nervously loosened my collar, glancing at my watch.

11:55 pm.

I wondered if the pounding in my head and the too-rapid beating of my heart were symptoms of whatever Smith had infected that blade with. As I pulled out my handkerchief to mop my brow, Holmes stopped his shot and was at my side in an instant, laying his hand on my forehead with a look of dead fright.

"Not a fever, Holmes," I said a little uneasily, "just nerves, that's all."

He swallowed hard and, after a push from me, went back to the table. I choked down my nervous nausea and followed his shot.

We finished the game and started another, more to stall for time than anything else. I looked at my watch again.

1:15 am.

I was growing weary of the game and so was he, for neither of us were paying the least attention to the table. We gave up in despair and left the lounge, glad to be in the cool night air again.

The knot in my stomach was making itself felt again as we ended up on a comfortable couch on the promenade deck, and I dared not speak for fear my voice would betray the lurking panic I was fighting to quash.

I almost wished for the symptoms to show, painful though I knew they would be – just so that I would not have to continue to wait like this!

1:35 am.

"Watson."

"Yes?"

"Is there – is there anything you would like to ask me?"

I turned, looking at him after he had hesitantly put forth the odd question.

"No, I mean it. I – am not the most talkative of persons," Holmes said, fidgeting nervously with his cufflinks, "and – well, if you want to, please go ahead?"

"Well - tell me…" I said hesitantly, and then I stopped uncertainly.

"Go on, old chap."

I turned to face his haunted grey eyes, took a deep breath, and went on.

"Tell me, what did you think of me when we first met?"

He smiled a little sadly.

"My first impression, you mean?"

"And afterwards."

"Well, my first was that of respect for a man who had been through the horror of what I knew was happening in Afghanistan at the time," he said simply, his gaze softening as he thought back.

"And?"

"And after we moved in - well, I thought I had never met a more unselfish and easy-going, tolerant chap in my life," he said, his mouth twitching with a half-smile.

I chuckled.

"You did not know me very well then."

"Hmm, yes. How in the world have you tolerated me all this time, anyhow, Watson?"

"That, my dear Holmes, is a mystery I don't believe even _you_ could solve," I returned with a small smile.

His returning smile died as I glanced at my watch for the tenth time.

1:45 am.

"How do you feel?"

"Nervous."

"I mean besides that," he said impatiently, his voice laced with taut worry.

"Scared, nothing more than that yet," I told him truthfully – I felt nothing yet other than that tense nausea. This germ that Smith had infected me with must just be set to work with terrible rapidity the last few hours of the night.

I shivered at the thought, and Holmes's face drew in with agonizing concern.

"Let's go back to the cabin, Watson," he said quietly, taking my arm and gently pulling me to my feet.

I was indeed weary of hearing the joyous parties going on around us, seeming to mock the seriousness of our feelings.

I wondered absently how long it would be before the first major symptoms showed.

Once we had returned to the stateroom, I sank wearily down on the bed, my mind and emotions nearly spent from the whirlwind of feelings I had gone through in the last four hours. It was after two o'clock now – surely something would happen within a few hours. This waiting was destroying both our nerves.

I closed my eyes for several minutes, willing my anxiety back to some semblance of calm, and when I opened them at last, I was shocked to see Holmes sitting at the table with his head down on his arm, his thin shoulders shaking.

"Holmes? Are you all right?"

He jerked his head up hastily, blinking suspiciously.

"I thought you were asleep, Watson," he replied unsteadily.

"Hardly," I said uneasily, glancing again at my watch.

2:30.

"Why don't you try to rest, old fellow?" he asked softly, "you will need all your strength to fight whatever this is."

I sat up on one elbow.

"Do you really think there's a chance?" I asked, a faint hope springing up in my mind.

"There is always a chance, my dear Watson," he said quietly, but I could tell by the grief in his eyes that he knew as well as I did that Smith took no chances with his victims.

I sank back wearily and closed my eyes again; not wanting to lose any waking moment I had left, but I was so very tired. Fatigue – was not that a symptom of the sailor's sickness?

The thought turned my stomach and my nerves into a mess of knots, and I felt my breathing quicken with the mere thought.

"Watson?" I heard an anxious voice by my head, and I opened my eyes.

"I am fine, Holmes," I said, hoping my voice sounded reassuring.

He patted my shoulder gently and then walked to the open porthole to gaze out upon the water, and I closed my eyes once more.

I must have fallen asleep, for I was abruptly awakened when Holmes put an icy hand on my forehead to check my temperature. I jumped awake, startled, and he hastily spoke.

"Easy, Watson," he murmured, "how are you feeling?"

I took a moment to wake up fully before answering, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes.

"The same," I said, "what time is it?"

"After five o'clock," he whispered, the dark circles under his eyes even more pronounced than they had been before.

I sat up with a start.

"Five o'clock?" I gasped, "how long is this blasted thing going to take to show symptoms?!"

"Watson!"

His horrified look brought my nerves back under control, and I sat up on the bed and looked at him wearily. He was sitting by my bed, straddling a chair backwards with his chin resting upon his arms, which were folded across the back of it.

He looked altogether miserable, and my mood matched his. We both knew we could not have much time left.

Several times he opened his mouth to say something and stopped, his proud nature not allowing to pass his lips what I knew he felt and wanted to say. And I could think of nothing to ease his guilt – I knew all too well what he was feeling, for I had felt the same guilt after leaving him at the Reichenbach Falls, knowing if I had stayed perhaps together we could have bested Moriarty.

5:45 am.

I took a long breath and met my friend's gaze. No more words were necessary.

6:15 am.

I fidgeted nervously and switched positions. Holmes stared at the wall, his pain-filled eyes unblinking.

6:55 am.

"Confound it, Holmes, why hasn't something happened!" I exclaimed miserably, "this waiting is worse than the actual symptoms must be!"

His brow furrowed and his eyes filled with grief.

"Watson, I –"

He stopped as our attention was drawn to a note that had been just slipped under the door of my stateroom. Holmes arose and pounced upon it, opening the door and glancing up and down the corridor.

"No one in sight," he said with a frown, returning to the room and unfolding the paper as he sat beside me on the bunk. I leaned over to read the missive over his shoulder.

And my heart seemed to stop.

_I hope you spent a pleasant night together, gentlemen. As you no doubt have deduced by now, Mr. Holmes, that was merely a warning – there was nothing in the envelope to endanger you. Just a little reminder that I know where you are and I can find you any time I choose – and from your blundering actions I know you have no idea of my whereabouts. Happy hunting, Mr. Holmes. _Smith.

The paper dropped from Holmes's shaking hands and fluttered to the floor as he looked up at me, a tiny dash of color coming back to his strained face.

"He – he was toying with us, Watson. The filthy blackguard was only mocking us!" he gasped weakly, looking as if he were going to faint.

And as the realization of the note's meaning slowly filtered into my terrified mind, I felt the same way.

Smith had just been playing with our minds – the night was through, and I was still alive!


	23. Eye of the Storm

Chapter 32: "Eye of the Storm"

_**Holmes**_

My friend watched me in concern from his position on the bunk, propped up on one elbow. The experience had caused him a great deal of strain, leaving him fairly limp. I was not so passive and found myself pacing the length of the small stateroom.

True, Watson had never been in any danger - but he could have been, and I would have been helpless to prevent it. Without even realizing it, Smith had come far too close to dealing a blow far more devastating than my own death would have been.

"Holmes," my friend said quietly after a few moments of silence. "I am fine."

"He could have killed you."

"But he didn't, my dear fellow."

He gave me a shaky smile, the relief evident on his face.

My thoughts were a swirling turmoil and I found it no little difficulty to concentrate on anything other than the dreadful ordeal we had both undergone.

As though on cue the baby in the cabin nearby began to squall yet again. I gritted my teeth in frustration and strode to the door.

"Holmes," Watson called, climbing to his feet.

He followed me out into the hall

"Holmes, what are you doing? You can't just…" he cut off as I strode to the door of the cabin and knocked on it sharply.

He sighed.

"Holmes, they can't help it if their child is restless."

"Something has to be done, Watson; I cannot stand another moment of that noise."

My friend put a hand on my arm and I was surprised by the intensity of his grip. I turned to face him and saw that he was scowling, though more with worry than anything else.

"Holmes, you are acting impetuously, reacting just as Smith intended you to."

"I am tired of waiting for things to happen, Watson."

"He wants you to be driven by emotion Holmes, to act without thinking. Take a breath and clear your head for a moment before…"

He was interrupted by the opening of the door, and we both turned to face the young gentleman who opened it.

He glanced nervously at both of us, and it was obvious that he was still completing his toilette for his cravat hung limply about his neck and he was only in his shirtsleeves, without a jacket.

"Can I be of assistance, gentleman?" he asked, or rather attempted to. For his daughter chose that moment to raise the pitch of her exuberant cries.

He seemed well past flinching at the sound, though both Watson and I did.

"James, what is it?"

The fellow turned and stepped back a little so that a young woman, presumably his wife, of only 18 or 20 years of age could join him.

In her arms she cradled the infant wrapped in a bundle of nursery blankets, face as red as a tomato as she screamed her unhappiness to the world.

From the deep shadows under both parents' eyes it was evident that they had gotten little sleep over the past several nights. Indeed, the mother looked as though she were dead on her feet, wrapped in her dressing gown.

I deduced automatically from the quality of their clothes that they were not in the best current prospects. This was understandable of course as they were both young, probably around a year married. The young man, from the state of his shoes and hands, was some sort of reporter or new official. His company, paper, or whoever it was that employed him had probably paid for the tickets so he could travel to his new position in Indonesia, taking his wife and infant daughter with him.

I gave Watson a sheepish look and he returned it with a raised brow, the corners of his mouth twitching.

"Can I help you?" the young fellow asked again.

I cleared my throat, understanding from Watson's smug look that I would get no help from that quarter.

"Yes uh…I could not help but notice that you have been having a bit of difficulty with your child…I was wondering if there is anything I could do to help?"

The fellow's brow furrowed and he looked at me doubtfully.

"We uh…we're neighbors," I explained, motioning to my cabin. "I am sorry not to have introduced myself sooner."

Watson nudged me with his elbow, egging me on to further action.

"I-I am Sherlock Holmes and this…" I pulled him forward. "This is my friend and colleague Dr. Watson."

"A doctor of medicine?"

This exclamation came from the young woman and she watched Watson with a hopeful eye.

My dear friend slipped at once into his role as physician, shrugging on his medical instincts the way one pulls on a comfortable coat.

"Yes miss, I am. Is someone ill?"

"Yes!" the young mother gasped with some relief, though her husband scowled slightly, too prideful and embarrassed to admit his need.

"Your child?"

I watched in some amazement as Watson strode forward, his face marked with just the right amount of concern and assurance, his voice steady and calming. He really was a brilliant doctor.

Again the mother responded in the affirmative, Watson bent over the small bundle.

"May I?"

She nodded and he took the child in his arms, holding her carefully. He was looking at the small face with an unusual amount of clarity and awe…and I knew it could only be the product of his relief.

He had thought that he was never to see such things again, every drop of rain and fresh breeze would hold significance now.

And this thought made my anger even stronger. How dare Smith endanger the life of a man who gave so much, and in turn gained so much joy from the innocent pleasures of this world.

After a cursory examination my friend nodded slowly.

"Seasick…Holmes, would you get my bag? It's on my desk."

"Certainly, old chap," I said, hurrying at once back to his room and returning with his medical kit.

They had entered the room by that time and the husband stood by, watching as Watson continued his examination of the infant. The mother had sunk down onto the bunk, watching with worried eyes that were very weary in a face so young.

I placed the bag on the bed and Watson murmured his thanks, barely making himself heard over the baby's squalls.

"Shall I hold her?" the mother asked, though she seemed exhausted even as she said it. The father moved as though he would offer next, but Watson motioned him to a chair.

"There is no need to tire yourselves. It is evident that this insistent young lady has been demanding your attention for quite some time. Holmes, you hold her while I tend to her."

I glanced sharply at my Boswell, my mouth opening in surprise. But Watson's look cut off any comment I might have made and I soon found myself cradling the infant in my grip.

To my utter astonishment, the wailing slowly died down, and the small red face uncrinkled. The little creature looked up at me with a pair of blue eyes and hiccupped, her cheeks still puffy from her crying.

Watson grinned. "See there, Holmes, she likes you."

I raised my eyebrows, and the mother and father looked greatly relieved.

"Yes it seems she does." I said, puzzled by this development. I turned to the mother. "_**Why**_ does she?"

The mother blinked and said, "Perhaps you remind her of her uncle, sir. He took a fancy to her before we left and she to him. He smokes fairly strong tobacco, and if you'll pardon my saying so…"

"You reek of it." Watson interrupted with another grin.

I shot him a glare, then was arrested by what he was doing.

He noticed my glance and announced his actions to the room in general.

"I'm going to give her a little ginger, helps to settle the stomach."

The mother smiled in gratefully though the father looked guarded, and kept his eyes on Watson as my friend administered it.

It seemed to have the desired affect and by the time I had handed the infant back to the mother, she was nearly asleep.

The father showed us to the door, and hesitated before closing it again.

"I'm…I'm much obliged to both of you," he said, "it's been very hard on Anna."

Watson smiled and shook the fellow's hand.

"It's a pleasure to be of service, sir. Do not hesitate to ask for my help at any time. I am just the second door down."

The fellow returned the smile and then closed the door softly. Watson turned to me with an air of satisfaction.

Then with his professional manner dropped, the reaction hit him full force and he gave a deep, shaky sigh, leaning against the wall.

I automatically reached out in concern but he waved me away.

"It's all right, Holmes, it is just remarkable, that's all."

"What is, my dear fellow?"

Watson smiled, his hazel eyes lit with that extraordinary clarity that I often observed in them.

"Life."

I smiled at him, but my attitude was more morose than his.

"It is, Watson, and your appreciation for it is even more remarkable now. But now we must turn our energies to preserving it."

A fit of action had come upon me, a drive to find Smith and quickly, before he had a chance to do even more damage.

"What are we going to do?" my friend asked, sticking his hands in his pockets, rebounding from the shock and terror remarkably as he always did.

What were we to do…truly? Truth be told, I had not really thought beyond the urgency to find Smith, but we still had no means of locating him other than the passenger list.

I strode away down the hall, knowing Watson would follow, and after a few minutes an idea came to mind.

"This process of elimination is going too slowly, Watson. I have no doubt that Smith has struck down several more victims even as we speak. We have 55 names left and our only clue is that he could not be a member of the crew."

"How do we know that?"

"They were carefully set; I had to call in an extreme favor to get even Lachlan aboard, and he has been going over the crew's records in his spare time. No, to have the access and prestige he needs to make this plan work Smith has to be a passenger. Do not forget that if he intends to resurface as a specialist of diseases he will have to create an identity for himself. It is more than plausible that he has already done so."

"What do you intend to do then, if this method is going too slowly?"

"I intend to think, Watson. He is playing a game with us, last night showed that."

I shuddered inwardly.

"There is another hidden motive behind this, and I intend to find it and use it to our advantage."

Watson nodded knowingly. He was accustomed to trusting my odd insights and instincts.

I went on as we reached the end of the hall.

"First we shall assure Lachlan that you are alive and well,"

Watson swore loudly. "Good heavens! He must be beside himself!"

"Quite…come along, old fellow."

Lachlan _was_ beside himself and obviously had not slept. We found him up on the deck near the fore of the ship, leaning on the railing and peering out over the sea, as the sun rose to tinge both it and the sky a delicate pink.

His back was to us and I could not resist a touch of theatricality.

"What is that quaint old nautical phrase, Watson? Red sky at morning, sailors take warning. It seems there is a storm ahead."

The seaman spun where he stood and caught sight of us, his wide eyes lingering on the staunch form of my Boswell, upright and well as ever.

Lachlan let out a shaky breath and put his head into his hand, leaning heavily on the iron railing.

"Thank God." he breathed, wholeheartedly, quite white under his tan.

Watson shot me a very dirty look but he was succeeded in his lecture by the seaman, who let out a string of blue curses and glared at me with a venom I would not have attributed to his nature.

"That is a low thing to do, Holmes, I thought I was seeing a ghost, and that means more to a superstitious sailor like me than to any of you landlubbers. Do that again and I'm likely to pitch you over the side!"

Watson tried to conceal a grin at this image…he did not succeed.

Lachlan turned away from me and looked to Watson, running over the form of my friend with his piercing, blue gaze. When he was satisfied that Watson was indeed not a ghost he sighed again and allowed himself a smile.

"I don't know what happened but I'm certainly glad it did…are you quite all right Doctor?"

Watson nodded.

"The pink of health," he said in a reassuring and steady tone.

"The razor was a bluff," I said, "Smith was trying to disturb us."

"Aye, and he did a good job of it," Lachlan said, still glaring at me as though he would like to toss me over not only from the grief caused by myself but Smith as well.

I took a step back, for he looked fully capable of the action.

His expression cleared.

"Don't count too much into my words, Holmes, they were spoken in a moment of anger…I'm just glad his threat was an empty one."

I shook my head.

"Not empty…he could have done away with any of us by now, just that easily…there is a reason he has not."

Lachlan frowned. "What is that?"

"I don't know yet, but I mean to find out."

The midshipman nodded. "Is there anything I can do?"

"You can go to bed," Watson said, his eyes concerned. "You've only had three hours sleep out of the last 24."

I nodded in agreement. "You'll be far more use with some rest. And…I apologize for the rash entrance."

Lachlan's brows shot up.

"You…apologizin'. Now there's something I've not seen."

Watson laughed. "He does not do it often. Go to bed, Lachlan."

Lachlan sighed. "You are the only medical man I have ever listened too Doctor…and that only because you saved my life. Keep away from the mail. And don't either of you let anythin' happen to each other while I'm out or I'll throw you **both** into the drink."

He gripped Watson's shoulder briefly as he passed down the companionway to the end of the ship. Obviously he was more tired than he let on, from his lack of argument.

Watson turned to me, the question clear upon his face.

I sighed. "I am far too restless to sit and think, Watson; my body demands action, I cannot run my mind alone."

"What do you intend to do then?…I've had quite enough of billiards."

I smiled at his jest. "So have I, my dear fellow. Still the notion is a good one, and there must be something I can do as I think. Something to fill the hours until that confounded ship's dinner tonight."

"You could catch Lachlan up and provoke him into another boxing bout."

Like a match being struck, the solution sprang at once into my mind.

"Watson, you are brilliant!"

"I wasn't serious! Holmes, the poor man is exhausted…_and_ shaken no thanks to your careless theatrics."

"No, no, Watson. I had another activity in mind, one perfect for disciplining both mind and body. It will give me a chance to clear my head."

"What?"

But I was already striding towards the entrance to the main staircase - he could only follow after me.

"Come on, old fellow."

_**Watson**_

"NO."

"Oh come on, Watson. It is only a friendly match."

"I would rather play another game of pool with that blasted American!"

"It is only an exercise, my dear fellow - no masks, no jackets, just the foils."

"I don't fence!"

Holmes sighed though he still extended the handle of the weapon towards me.

"Nonsense, old fellow, you've done it a thousand times. You're good."

I glared at him, arms folded, pointedly ignoring the weapon as he waved it beneath my nose.

"Not as good as you. We haven't fenced for three years, Holmes, and in case you have forgotten…you're still wearing your stitches!"

Holmes returned the glare, lowering the weapon. "My side is fine, Watson, well up to a little exercise. And it hasn't been that long…you used to enjoy it, causal matches constantly…"

"The last casual match we had resulted in the destruction of Mrs. Hudson's best teapot, and a bad blow for me from the poker!"

"Well we're not in Baker Street this time, we're in the fencing court of a ship en route to the Indian Ocean. I highly doubt we will do any damage here."

I sighed as he extended the foil once again.

"Come on, Watson."

I looked at him, at his usually enigmatic face now set in a smile, almost lighthearted. His eyes danced with good humor and despite all my objections I found myself laughing and returning the smile, taking the foil from his hand.

Perhaps this was his own reaction to the tangible fear of last night, perhaps it was making me careless as well. Such an activity was certainly not befitting the gravity of the situation and the mystery that surrounded us.

But Sherlock Holmes was so rarely merry and when he was the feeling was contagious, making it impossible not to join in on the merriment.

Holmes stood back, sans his jacket, and saluted, the sun glinting off the blade of his foil. I returned the gesture and stood my guard, knowing full well that the rest of the match would not be so courteous.

A friendly match with Holmes often resulted in our ignoring and placing aside many of the protocols of fencing…but that did not make it easier, for casual or no Holmes was an expert.

Nor, did it seem, had time dulled his edge - for the moment he saw me to be ready he stepped forward and thrust his weapon at me with a startling speed that forced me to stagger and block it only just in time.

Holmes smiled but said nothing as I laughed and came again to my stance, but he was already lost to the movement of the bout, leaving his mind free, as he had predicted, to pursue the matter of Smith.

This put me at least on the same level as he; for with his mind distracted, I might be able to keep up with his rapid movements.

At first I moved awkwardly, a stranger to the actions and the movements of my friend. My arms and legs protested the unfamiliar stances and motions of parries and blocks. I was slothful to catch up Holmes' attacks and was kept so busy defending that I had little chance to try any sort of offensive.

Then slowly, the aches in my limbs died as my muscles recalled the nearly forgotten movements. My eye began to catch and recognize Holmes characteristic thrusts and cuts, began to predict them, so that I was not only able to block but to attack.

It was a wonderful feeling, like returning home, and so confident did I become that I tried a rather risky lunge under Holmes's guard towards his stomach.

He blocked and stumbled ever so slightly, as off balance as I had been a few minutes before. He blinked at me in surprise, drawn out of his revelry for the moment.

Slowly I began to flag, and became keenly aware not only of the sun on my back but of the sweat dripping down my face. One of the cursed drops stung the top of my eye and I blinked, trying to disperse it. Then I tripped as an unexpected blow whipped just in front of my face and something caught at the back of my legs. I landed with a gasp on the wood decking, looking up at the clear blue sky.

Another instant passed before my friend's silhouette appeared above me, blocking out the bright rays of the sun…he was smiling. I had let myself be distracted by the pattern of his movements and he had purposefully driven me back.

"All right are you, old fellow?" he asked, extending a hand for me to take.

I took it, breathing heavily, and lifted the foil from where it had fallen on the deck.

"Have you thought of a solution to Smith yet?"

He shook his head, still smiling. "I fear not Watson…you're not tired of this little activity, are you?"

I grinned in reply and raised my foil again. "Not at all, Holmes."

He cut in a smooth arc towards my torso, and I blocked it and followed up with a counter-attack that landed my blade inside his guard against his chest.

Again he was forced to scramble to block it, and I smirked.

"Just getting the hang of it."


	24. Sources of Joy

"On board ship there are many sources of joy of which the land knows nothing. You may flirt and dance at sixty; and if you are awkward in the turn of a valse, you may put it down to the motion of the ship. You need wear no gloves, and may drink your soda-and-brandy without being ashamed of it."

Anthony Trollope (1815–1882),

Chapter 24: "Sources of Joy"

_**Holmes**_

"Holmes."

"Yes, old chap?"

"That baby is no longer screaming – why are you finishing your toilette in my stateroom yet again?"

I glanced in the mirror at Watson's mischievous face as he was putting on his jacket and felt my mouth twist into a grin.

"Was that a not very subtle hint for me to make myself scarce, Watson?" I asked, pretending to look hurt.

"Not necessarily, though I do wish you would let me have at least a fourth of the mirror," he said, ducking under my elbow to straighten his tie.

He knew, I believe, what I would never say aloud – that I had been deeply shaken, shaken to my very core, by the last night's events; and that I was loathe to let him out of my sight for an instant for fear that Smith would attack again.

I had gotten him back from the grave, so to speak, for although he had not actually been infected, he so easily could have. And for a horrible night, the most horrible night of my life, I thought I was going to have to watch him die, slowly and painfully.

Watson had been most brave about it, but the horror and fear still lingered with us both, the evening after the fact; and I was still having trouble shaking off the horrible thoughts that still lurked round my mind and heart.

Watson evidently had put the past in the past, however, for he gave a jerk to his tie and then started to chuckle.

"What is so amusing, Doctor?"

"I still can't believe I beat you, Holmes."

"Yes, well –"

"I mean, really – _no one_ bests Sherlock Holmes in fencing!"

"My mind was not on the game, Watson," I said defensively, slightly embarrassed by the fact myself.

I had just got close to what I thought might be a solution when suddenly my wrist had twisted and my foil went flying to the side of the fencing court. I had shaken myself out of my reverie to see a pair of incredulous but near-overjoyed hazel eyes looking at me triumphantly.

And at my completely dumbfounded look – my mental processes had fled from my mind upon the instant and I had no idea what I had been thinking about – Watson had broken into a delighted little laugh.

I scowled now at the remembrance of the morning's events; although truth be told, I was more than happy to see him so pleased – I had thought never to hear him laugh again after last night's dreadful nightmare.

"I was preoccupied, Watson, nothing more."

"Mmhm."

"We shall have to have a rematch, of course."

"Oh, no. I want to be able to say that the last time I fenced with you, I won. I am not playing again!"

"It was not a fair match!"

"Perhaps not – but you are the one who said you do not like to play by the rules, remember?" he asked impishly, leaning on the wall to look at me while I finished putting in my cuff-links.

I glared at him, and he calmly returned the look with a grin, knowing full well that I was not in the least bit annoyed. My pride had been hurt a trifle, but I could think of no man more worthy to best me that the one standing beside me, and I was not bothered in the least by it.

"I suppose you're going to be telling this to the whole ship," I teased him as we turned to leave.

"No, no. But it _will_ go in the story when I write it up, I promise you that!" he said with a laugh.

I snorted and made some comment about embellished romantic adventures, and he countered with his usual arguments – I had no idea really what we were talking about, for the argument was so old we had each other's responses down pat; it was more habit than anything else at this point in time.

"You know, you need to find something new to criticise me about, Holmes," he said thoughtfully as we made our way to dinner.

"Hmm?"

"Besides my writing. You need to find a new focus."

"But you have no other vices, old chap – there is nothing to dislike," I said, quite seriously.

Now it was his turn to snort.

"Are you feeling quite well, Holmes?"

"Watson, not everything I say is meant as sarcasm!"

"Well you need to post a warning then, or one day I might die of a heart attack!"

I laughed aloud, the feeling of relief I had felt last night upon realizing Smith had been toying with us washing over me once again – and it was such a good feeling to be walking in to dinner, relatively safe, and for a little while pretend that all was well in our little world.

The key word in that thought being _pretend_.

My thoughts went from jollity back to Smith – but before my mood could dip, we nearly collided with a familiar figure on the way to dinner.

"Midshipman, are you permitted to eat with passengers?" I asked the man in front of us.

"Aye, Mr. Holmes," Lachlan replied, looking much the better now for a solid block of sleeping time, "is tha' an invitation?"

"Better accept it now, Lachlan – Holmes is not the sociable type. Might recall the request at any time," Watson said with an undignified snicker.

I elbowed him warningly.

"I am interested to hear your tale of last night, I must admit."

"Then it is settled. Table for three, please?"

Over an excellent dinner, I told Lachlan briefly the outline of what had happened.

"You said this mornin' that you were going to do some thinking, Holmes – have ye decided why Smith hasn't really killed you both yet?" the officer asked us.

"No, I was almost to the conclusion this morning when I was…distracted…by something," I replied, glancing at Watson in time to see him smirk, "and when I regained my concentration, my train of thought had vanished."

"Pity," Watson interjected blandly, sipping his port and not sounding at all sorry about being the cause of my mental lapse.

Lachlan eyed him quizzically, and I interrupted before Watson could tell the story – I still had my pride!

"Anyway, Lachlan, I do apologise for not letting you know sooner when we found out it was a hoax – I confess to being beyond reasonable thought at that point," I said, leaning back as the waiter passed Watson's food over me to him.

When the white-coated fellow with the fake accent had departed, Lachlan asked Watson some question about the case while I leaned back thoughtfully, trying to recall what it was that I had been thinking of before Watson had so skillfully bested me at our friendly bout this morning.

What was it? Something about Smith, why he wanted us alive. Some reason…

"So because he was so distracted, I was able to twist the foil out of his hand and it went flying thirty feet across the court," I head Watson telling Lachlan out of my distant senses.

I snorted.

"Fifteen feet," I interjected indignantly.

"Thirty."

"It was no more than twenty!"

"It was thirty," Watson said to Lachlan in a privately informative tone.

I gave up and went back to my musing, absently eating and not realizing what was in front of me. What was that elusive reason, why Smith wanted us alive still?

I finally became aware that I was staring rather rudely into space when I heard Lachlan ask Watson something in a low voice and they both snickered. I snapped out of my thoughts and looked at them.

They were both watching me with amusement, and I just now realized the table had been cleared completely of dishes.

"Ah. Finished, are we?"

"Now _that_ is one brilliant deduction, my dear fellow. It is no wonder you're famous."

Lachlan gave a snort of laughter at Watson's sarcasm, and I glared at the both of them, rising from the table.

They followed me after exchanging an amused look, and we made our way up to the deck again. I stood close to the rail, looking out over the night sky. The promised storm seemed to be at bay at the moment, the only indication of approaching rough seas being a strong salty breeze that set the gas lights swinging.

The sounds of a six-piece orchestra leading the songs for the dancing couples were not conducive to deep thought, and so I turned to Watson and Lachlan.

"I have to find where that train of thought led, gentlemen, and so I am going to go sit down and have a quiet smoke."

"Will you think better with a sounding board?"

"Not one that beat me in fencing," I replied dryly.

Watson flushed slightly and grinned.

"Are you certain?"

"Quite. Why don't you and Lachlan go and dance or something?" I suggested slyly.

"I've never danced with a doctor before," Lachlan said seriously, his face absolutely devoid of any expression.

I nearly shouted with laughter at the midshipman's unexpected vein of humor and at my friend's bright red face.

"That was not _exactly _what I meant, Lachlan," I said dryly.

"That is rather a relief."

I snickered and left the two of them near the dancing area and settled myself on a nearby couch, far enough out of range that the background noise would not be disturbing and near enough that I could keep a sharp eye out for any trouble.

I smiled as I saw that they had already made their way through the crowd and were already deep in converse with a group of people – Watson was the magnetic type that made friends everywhere and anywhere he went, and Lachlan was very like him.

Possibly that was why I was drawn to our client more so than the normal for me.

But I pushed all thoughts of sentiment from my mind now – I had to get my thoughts back on track, for I had wasted enough time today in frivolity.

I absently lit up my pipe, thinking back through the case and still not remembering what I had been thinking of.

Then my mind went back to that week in '90 when I had first encountered Smith in the adventure that had shaken Watson so deeply – his reaction still to this day haunted me as a reminder of how heartless I could be.

But even he did not know the true facts of the case, and I had no intention of telling him what had really transpired…

What had really transpired.

That was it.

That was why Smith had kept me alive all this time instead of removing me.

_**Watson**_

"I don't waltz."

"Oh, go on, Midshipman," I said with a grin, nodding to the woman in question who was trying, rather prettily I might add, to convince the seaman to dance with her.

"I don't waltz!" he said desperately, his tanned face turning red.

"I don't care, Mr. Lachlan," the young thing said coquettishly, blinking a pair of long eyelashes at the flustered sailor.

"I am so going to keelhaul you for talking me into this, Doctor," the seaman muttered in my ear as he passed me.

I chuckled as he awkwardly took the lady on his arm and they swept out with the other couples on the deck.

Lachlan had, as I suspected, been merely trying to wriggle out of the thing – I could tell already that he danced as well as any other man on the deck.

And evidently the girl he was with had noticed too, and I watched with a smile as they interacted and the sailor began to relax visibly.

"Dr. Watson?"

I turned to see the young couple that held the stateroom next to Holmes's, baby in tow. They both looked much the better after a day of rest, and they appeared very much more happy, dressed in evening wear. Even the baby had on a little shiny dress that caught the light and made her coo and giggle.

"I did not even introduce myself to you this morning, Doctor," the man said, extending a hand to me, "James Sydney. This is my wife Anna and our little Helen."

The fellow appeared much more amiable than he had this morning, thanks to the rest, and I shook his hand and nodded to the lady.

"How has your daughter been, madam?"

"Much better, Doctor – she slept for several hours and has not been ill since you helped her this morning," the lady said, holding the child out for my inspection.

The little one's blue eyes were staring widely at everything, and a smile creased my face. I had thought never to see such small wonders again after last night, and the sight still thrilled me.

"Yes, well, I get seasick myself on occasion, Mrs. Sydney," I admitted, "and when I get it, I am rather a bear – you can ask Sherlock Holmes if you do not believe me. It is undoubtedly the most miserable feeling in the world."

Both young parents laughed and we chatted for a few more moments. I noticed that the lady kept casting longing looks at the dancing couples a few feet from us.

"Mrs. Sydney, would you like me to take Helen for a little while so that you and your husband can enjoy the dancing for a bit?" I asked suddenly.

The woman's face lit up, and she looked pleadingly at her husband.

"We cannot ask you to do that, Doctor, you have been too kind already –"

"Nonsense, I love children," I replied, "and Holmes is sitting over there on a couch. I'll just go over and talk to him while you have a bit of fun, eh?"

"Well…"

"Please, James?" the wife asked, her eyes sparkling.

"Are you quite certain you do not mind, Doctor?"

"Not in the least, lad. Come along now, Helen."

The woman handed the baby to me and she looked at me for a moment, scrutinizing my face. Then apparently she decided I passed inspection and she settled back with a coo, waving a tiny hand trying to grab my mustache.

"Thank you so much, Doctor Watson – we will only do one dance and not take up much of your time," the father said, taking his wife's arm.

"Make it as many as you like, Holmes and I will watch her," I replied, cradling the baby and smiling at the fresh young couple as they made their way into the next dance.

I wove my way through the crowd, finally reaching Holmes's seat without mishap and sitting down beside him.

"Thought of it yet?"

"Yes, I know now what – where the devil did you pick _that_ up?"

"This is Helen, Holmes, not _that_. Babies have names, you know."

"Do they?"

"You are perfectly ridiculous. Here, you hold her – she likes you," I said, extending the child to my friend.

"No, no, I am done with all screaming children," he replied hastily, waving me away with the stem of his pipe.

"She isn't screaming – and keep that pipe away from her, the stuff you smoke is thick enough to choke a horse!"

"It is not! And your 'ship's' is no better, thank you very much!"

"Perhaps not, but I don't smoke it around small children!"

Holmes eyed the infant, who was returning his gaze with a cool curiosity, her blue eyes fastening on his pipe.

She gave a little baby-laugh and reached out for it.

"No, you cannot have it, you're too young," Holmes addressed the child as if she were an adult.

I had to laugh at his absolute cluelessness and cradled the girl in the crook of my arm.

"Where is Lachlan?" Holmes asked.

I smiled and nodded toward the dancers.

"Look."

The seaman was twirling gaily round with one of the other group of single girls who had flocked round him at the side of the dance floor. He did cut rather a stunning figure in his dress uniform, and the lady he was dancing with was a simply gorgeous creature.

"Hmph."

"Really, Holmes, can you not be human for once?"

"If it ever means making a fool of myself in that silly fashion, no, Watson."

"He appears to be having rather a wonderful time," I said a bit wistfully.

Holmes heaved a huge sigh.

"All right, give me the little blighter and go enjoy yourself. But I need to talk to you and Lachlan as soon as you can detach yourself without being rude from that regiment of skirts."

I laughed mischievously and handed the baby Helen to him.

He took her a little nervously, looking at her tiny face and then putting his pipe on the ground beside him out of her reach.

"That could be rather a while, Holmes. We both are rather popular with the fair sex, you know. Remember, my department?"

Holmes snorted.

"Oh, do go on, Watson!"

I did, though a feeling of apprehension pricked the back of my mind, for I had spotted a familiar look in my friend's eyes.

The steely, pronounced sheen that meant he was connecting the threads of his web, that sooner rather than later, we would have our rendezvous with smith.


	25. One Anchor

"We should not moor a ship with one anchor, or our life with one hope." - Epictetus

Chapter 25: "One Anchor"

_**Watson**_

It proved to be rather difficult to extract Lachlan from midst of the girls that had surrounded him, and the midshipman did not make it any easier. It seemed that pretty girls were one of his weaknesses.

At last, though, I managed to pull him away and steer him toward where I had left Holmes with Helen. His eyes were still somewhat vacant and he had a distinct impression of a young woman's lips on his cheek.

I pointed this out and he rubbed it away quickly with his handkerchief, coloring slightly.I grinned.

"The young lady with the auburn hair seemed particularly taken with you, old fellow."

He laughed.

"A little too much…forward lass that one…and far too young. Her father must have a full-time job keeping tabs on her. You didn't do too bad yourself, Doctor. Quite a bit of the gossip going on out there was about you. One young lady in particular could not keep her feelin's for your 'gallant dancing' to herself."

"Well between the two of you, you should be able to infatuate every eligible young woman on the ship…and I wouldn't encourage your 'burnette', Lachlan - she's engaged."

We stopped short as Holmes came up beside us, lighting his pipe once again, and looking utterly bored with the topic of conversation.

I frowned at him.

"What did you do with Helen?" For I noticed the baby was conspicuously absent from his arms.

Lachlan raised his eyebrows.

"Helen?"

"The baby from the neighboring cabin," I explained quickly as Holmes glowered at the implication that he too had been entertaining a lady.

"Ah, the one with the lungs," Lachlan grinned.

"Yes. She's taken a fancy to Holmes."

"She's done nothing of the kind. She enjoys the smell of tobacco," Holmes said firmly.

"_Your_ tobacco," I insisted.

Holmes snorted, "Her parents came to collect her. Are we going to spend the evening discussing infants or are you interested in what I have deduced?"

"You've remembered then?"

"The thought that you so rudely interrupted this morning? Yes, I have."

"Good." Lachlan said quickly, forestalling an argument. "Would you care to share it with us?"

"Mm." Holmes said absently, taking his pipe out of his mouth and pointing with it in the direction of the aft end of the deck. "It seems quiet enough over there."

I had to agree that relocation was necessary for a conversation, for the liveliness and the spirit of the surrounding festivities was only just beginning and was growing louder with each passing moment.

"Right." Lachlan said and forged ahead through the crowing crowd of after-dinner revelers, both his uniform and his stature cutting an effective path.

I was rather glad for the noise and crowd to fall away behind us and leaned with my back against the railing, enjoying the cool sea air. Lachlan leaned out to look at the dark water beneath us and Holmes stood fiddling with his pipe, which had apparently gone out again.

When he had at last gotten it lit to his satisfaction he turned to face us, reminding me of a general who surveys his troops.

I sighed and fixed him with a pointed look and he took his pipe out of his mouth.

"First, Lachlan, I should like to know how many people have become ill since your unfortunate sailor."

Lachlan blinked, saddened, but not overly surprised at the question.

"Five are ill…there have been no more deaths so far, and they seemed stable when I saw them last."

Holmes nodded soberly, "Are they all crew members?"

"Only three of them. One is an older gentleman in second class and the other a maid in first. Their families know nothing of the illness; they have been persuaded that it is merely a bug that has been going round the ship. The captain is trying to keep it quiet…though the ship's doctor's are baffled."

Holmes took a draw from his pipe.

"Then Smith advances in earnest…we must stop him soon or these fevers will be spread farther then I should like."

"I agree," I said, "but I still do not understand why he has not attempted to do away with you…or even me. He has, or should have, a healthy respect for your abilities since our last encounter."

Holmes looked at me…and I was shaken not so much by his expression, but by the lack of enthusiasm in his eyes, the lack of that eager energy…had the death of the sailor affected him so much?

"You have hit upon the subject of my deductions, Watson," he said in a voice also bereft of his usual feverish energy.

"His reason for not killing you lies in the past?" I said, confused. "It cannot be personal vengeance surely. Smith is far too practical a man for that - he is not another Moriarty."

Holmes smiled and a slight shadow passed over his face at the memory of that Napoleon of Crime, still fresh in his mind.

"No, Watson, you are correct in that sense. He does not desire to engage in a battle of wits with me…he would far rather have me out of the way as his scheme here is a delicate one and I am one of the few men who could spoil it."

"Then what could he possibly want of you? He would be an idiot to keep you alive otherwise."

Holmes grinned, and his eyes twinkled.

"That is a high compliment indeed, Watson…my blushes."

I sighed in exasperation and fixed him with the same pointed glare. "Get on with it, Holmes, do."

Lachlan turned to lean against the rail beside me, folding his arms in a manner that suggested he was of the same opinion. And under the combined, scrutinizing gazes, Holmes at last began.

"Smith has kept me alive thus far, because I possess information that he needs to guarantee the success of his plan."

Now it was Lachlan's turn to frown.

"But you said he had not counted on your arrival, if you were a vital piece to his puzzle than surely…"

"Surely he could have extracted the information from me earlier, before I even had time to get aboard ship…you are correct, Lachlan. But I meant what I said the first time, he did not count or even desire to have me involved in this scheme. But now that I am here, and with the knowledge I possess, he is put in very dire danger indeed."

"So he cannot kill you until he has extracted this information from you." I said.

"Precisely."

"Do you know how he plans to extract it?" Lachlan said, his face and voice grave with concern. And rightly so…there were many harmful ways that Smith could attempt to get this information from my friend.

Holmes smiled reassuringly at the midshipman.

"Nothing so crude, I assure you. I have already deduced his method, and it is a rather ingenious one. It goes on even now."

"What?" I asked, frustrated by the ingrained theatrics of my friend's personality.

"Entrapment, blackmail, hostages…I am not certain there is a term for it."

I exchanged a look with the seaman, saw that he was quite as confused as I, and opened my mouth to demand Holmes explain.

He did so before I requested it.

"The hostage is this ship. You yourselves, Lachlan especially, are witness to the fact that passengers and crew are sickening daily…and this will continue until Smith has driven me to give him the information voluntarily."

I felt my heart quicken with dread and I opened my mouth to protest.

Holmes intercepted my comments again.

"No, Watson, I have no intention of giving in. He does not count on my viewing it that way. For if his plan were to be successful than I would observe it not as a betrayal of the information but of saving the ship."

I frowned, "I don't follow."

Holmes hesitated for a moment, took another draught from his pipe and spoke again.

"Smith is _not_ the only man alive who has made a study of Indonesian diseases – there are others, amateurs such as he and a few professionals who know almost as much as he. The information I possess is the name of the very man who could be his undoing, the only other man who has managed to work out several possible cures for the diseases he is currently spreading."

A mix of emotions rose in my chest at this statement, for it meant that not only was my friend's safety secure for now, but that we might have an ally against Smith and his army of bacteria - but I was also somewhat uneasy. There was something that Holmes was withholding, hesitating to tell me. Even now, from the guarded look on his face, one could tell that he almost hoped I would leave it at that and except the explanation he had given.

Lachlan's voice broke in on my thoughts.

"So he expects you to contact this person as the situation on board worsens and discover the name from your message."

Holmes smiled. "Exactly. Keep an eye on the wireless officers, Lachlan. I expect that one of them, either this evening or tomorrow sometime, will sicken and have to be replaced."

"And the officer who replaces him will be Smith's man."

"Right."

"Holmes," I broke in on their exchange.

My friend turned toward me with a look of apprehension.

"You said that his reason for keeping you alive was tied back to our first case with him."

"I did."

"So you knew the name of this professional long before this voyage even began…did you consult him about the former case?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Lachlan was glancing uneasily at the two of us, sensing that there was an underlying tension.

There was of course, for I had never been able to forget that terrible day when I had come upon Holmes in his sick room, seemingly in the bouts of fever.

Now Holmes's hesitation was truly evident as he fiddled with his pipe unnecessarily and at long last glanced at me, his look solidifying my apprehension.

"I required his expertise…because without it I would not have survived to enjoy my victory over Smith."

He spoke the words as slowly and dreadfully as if they had been dragged from his mouth. A terrible idea pricked the back of my mind…and I refused to acknowledge it.

"How?" I asked, taking refuge in the question.

Holmes sighed, somewhat exasperated himself.

"Smith came to see me because he was under the impression that I was in the grasp of his disease."

"Yes, I know." I said, "I remember, you fooled even me, but what…"

Holmes cut me off impatiently. "_I_ fooled no one, Watson."

The terrible idea now pushed itself inexorably forward and I was forced to address it. I opened my mouth, and found that my throat was far too dry and my tongue too clumsy to form the words.

Holmes went on.

"Four days before you fetched Smith to me, that particular little ivory box arrived in the mail - you remember it?" my friend asked, his manner quiet and steady as when a teacher seeks to explain something to a student.

"Yes, of course." I said quickly.

"On the day in question I was engaged in another line of inquiry and did not look at the post until that evening. I was distracted by my other investigation and despite my suspicions of Smith I was not careful, much like you were when you opened the letter just last night."

I willed him to go on…and also dreaded it. It could not be…

Holmes licked dry lips and continued. "I opened the package and flipped open the lid of the box. And was successfully pricked by the spring which you heard Smith himself describe."

I tried to swallow and found I could not, I was suddenly very grateful for the support of the railing.

Holmes went a little faster, seemingly glad that he had at least gotten the first and most difficult part of the explanation out.

"I realized then whom the box was from, and what it meant; and I made preparations, contacting the only other expert on tropical diseases in London at the time."

"Ainstree?" I gasped, naming the very man I had suggested see Holmes when I had believed him fatally ill.

Holmes nodded.

"The very same, Watson. That night I managed to persuade him of my predicament and he began to work to complete an antidote just as the first of the symptoms began to show."

My friend took a very long draught from his pipe and Lachlan shifted uneasily, his blue eyes grave with concern and his attention torn between me and Holmes.

"I decided to take advantage of the opportunity and to trap Smith in his own schemes. I was quite confident at the time that I would be able to withstand the worst of the disease. Everything transpired as Mrs. Hudson described, I neither ate nor drank for two days, the fever progressed and I felt myself growing alarmingly weak…but Ainstree kept in contact with me, and was making rapid progress on the cure."

Holmes looked straight at me now, truly meeting my eyes for the first time since he had began.

"On the third day I allowed Mrs. Hudson to send for you. I had in fact planned on Ainstree or Mrs. Hudson herself to fetch Smith…"

He took the pipe from his mouth, "Believe me, Watson, I never meant to involve you in the sordid affair, but when the time came…"

I said nothing but my heart was beating rapidly.

"The disease had taken a stronger hold on me than I had expected it would. I remember very little of those few hours you spent in my bedroom…and any feverish ramblings were real."

He closed his eyes as though remembering and I felt the back of my eyes burn. I remembered all too well, at the time I had been mortally afraid that even his great mind had been irreparably damaged by the bizarre fever.

"The reason I did not let you near was indeed because of infection, and now that I look back upon the situation I curse the state to which I had sunk or I would never have let Mrs. Hudson fetch you so soon. Though…"

His enigmatic mask dropped and revealed a warm smile.

"…I was very glad for your company, old fellow."

I could not help but return the smile despite the turmoil of fear and realization that was swirling inside of me.

"Ainstree arrived shortly after you went to fetch Smith - and I refused the antidote, knowing that this last hour would be the most critical, my appearance would have to stand up under Smith's scrutiny. Ainstree was disturbed at my choice and adamant that I take it. I folded so far as to take half to stave off the fever and I agreed to keep the remainder close at hand so that I could take it at the end of my performance…in fact it was Smith himself that gave it to me."

"The water!" I gasped in sudden understanding, recalling the glass that Smith had given to Holmes near the end…and with a shudder I remembered the insistence in Holmes's hoarse voice as he pleaded for it…a tone near to desperation.

"Just so." said Holmes grimly, "The portion of the cure I had taken cleared my head enough that I was fortified for Smith's visit. The only real acting that I did was during that time, though my 'ghastly face' as you described it, was entirely genuine."

"And he administered the rest," I gasped, finding my voice once again. "And I recall upon my return from Smith's - you sounded more yourself, you seemed to have improved." I recalled my own words of the account as clearly as if my journal was before me.

_To my enormous relief, he had improved greatly in the interval. His appearance was as ghastly as ever, but all trace of delirium had left him and he spoke in a feeble voice, it is true, but with even more than his usual crispness and lucidity. _

Holmes nodded.

"I was on my way to recovery at that moment, not fully but the portion of the cure I took did much to improve my condition, mentally at least."

I swallowed the knot that had formed in my throat.

"Why in heaven's name did you not tell me? Why go through the elaborate deception of pretending the whole thing had been an act?"

My friend sighed.

"I fear, Watson, that at the time I was guilty of the same protectiveness that I displayed at Reichenbach. It seemed to me that the whole thing would be less of a strain to you if I led you to believe I had never truly been in danger. The thought occurred to me after I had taken that portion of the antidote, so I acquired the implements I needed before your arrival and made up an excuse for why I would not allow you to approach."

He fell silent, finished at last with the dreadful account, and I strove to settle the spinning of my mind - going over the thing in my memories, testing his story against my own account.

It was all there, his sudden recovery upon my return to his rooms, the dreadful surety I had felt upon my first glimpse of him that he was ill, his determination for the water at the end…and the mere fact that he had managed to deceive Smith.

I had never thought too deeply into the matter before, but now that I thought on it, it did not make sense that it would take four yards to 'deceive me' as he put it, but that he would be able to deceive Smith, who was a master of these diseases, at such a close range.

This explanation filled in all the discrepancies and flaws that had niggled at the back of my mind since Holmes's explanation of the events so many years ago. It was the truth, I could feel it - and at the realization of it I shuddered.

Holmes had been the victim of Smith not only recently but long ago. And just like Reichenbach, he had seen fit to deceive me.

Anger rose to replace the anxiety and I felt my brow darken…this combined with the fear of the last few days was almost too much. But now was not the time to lose my temper.

I understand that many of my readers are amazed at the fact that I have found it so easy to forgive my friend for his many deceptions…not least of all for allowing me to believe him dead for three years.

I will not deny that on each occasion I have been hurt, and angry, just as anyone else would. But I learned long ago that there are more important things in this life than pride, namely friendship. And Holmes was dear enough to me that I could forgive him more easily than I did others.

So as I had done out at the tor during the Baskerville case, I swallowed my anger at his deception and met his rather anxious gaze with a small smile.

"I always knew I liked Ainstree," I said, watching with some amusement as his expression changed to one of surprise.

Beside me Lachlan breathed out a sigh of relief.

"Thank heaven for levelheaded Englishmen. For a moment I thought I was going to have to break up a bout of fisticuffs, what with that storm cloud rising on your brow, Doctor."

Holmes relaxed visibly and I laughed, the last of the tension taken away by the easy words of the seaman.

"What is your plan then, Holmes?" I asked.

The detective stuck his pipe back in his mouth, not realizing in his relief that it had gone out again.

"We have failed to locate Smith, so we shall do what we did before and lay a trap for him. Tomorrow morning I shall send a telegram to Ainstree and wait for Smith to come to us."

"Holmes!" I objected but was stopped by his expression.

"Can you think of any other way in which to locate him, Watson?"

I sighed, the death of the sailor and the fate of the other members of the ship weighing heavily on my shoulders.

Holmes took this as assent.

"It is settled then. We shall have to increase our vigilance tenfold - and you, Lachlan, must keep an eye on the number of ill persons."

Lachlan nodded, his bright blue eyes seeming to turn dull and grey, solemn and devoid of their usual humor.

"As you would have it, Mr. Holmes. I'm behind you."

Holmes smiled grimly and nodded his thanks.

"And so am I," I said quietly.

My friend's troubled grey eyes turned to meet mine, the harshness of anxiety in their depths softening the merest trifle.

"I know."


	26. Fear

"There is no news in fear, but in the end its fear that drowns you." - Anne Sexton (1928-1974),

Chapter 26: "Fear"

_**Holmes**_

"Watson."

"What?"

"Do stop worrying; it will not do any good, you know."

"At least it allows me to do _something_," he replied morosely, staring out over the water as we watched the clouds beginning to gather on the horizon. The brewing storm would be here by this time tomorrow.

"You are still angry with me, aren't you?"

"No, not angry. Just – I just wish you had told me at the time, Holmes," he replied with a small sigh, not looking at me but out at the grey sky, than down at the choppy water below us. He shrank back, shaking his head.

"That really _is_ a deucedly low railing," he changed the subject, thereby indicating he had forgiven me as he always did.

I made a swift decision to never deceive him so drastically again, even for his own protection. The deception hurt him more than the truth would; and one of these days I should push his limits (though I doubted seriously that he had any) and might never be forgiven.

We were standing on the second-class deck, having prowled round at my suggestion to see if we could locate Smith as well as finding out the housing placement of the people who had fallen ill of odd ailments in the last few days.

The scattered placement of their staterooms on all three decks gave me no clue as to where Smith was basing himself from – there was absolutely no reason or pattern in the people who had been infected.

So far, three casualties and over a dozen others probably on their way to a similar fate. Smith had to be stopped, and he had to be stopped now, as soon as I could lay my hands upon him.

Or very likely, as soon as he could lay his hands upon me, for now that I had sent Ainstree that telegram warning him that I needed the ingredients to any antidotes he had concerning the diseases Smith had been working on in 1890, the man would no longer have an excuse for keeping me alive anymore.

I kept a sharp eye out, glancing round us at the shadows we passed, hoping that Smith did not have a blow-gun or some such weapon; we should be helpless if he did.

I heard footsteps behind us and Watson and I both whirled round warily, and I heard the click of his revolver cocking in his coat pocket.

But it was only Lachlan, glancing about him to ensure that he was not seen talking so privately to two passengers.

"What have you found?" I asked in a low voice, leaning against the railing.

"One more passenger ill, Holmes, and I just heard that two of the crew are as well – I'm on my way to check on them now," the man said, his honest face tinged with underlying worry and tension as he kept walking toward the aft of the ship and the crew's quarters.

"We will wait for you here," I told him, "be quick, because I need to know the symptoms. If Ainstree gets my wire and returns any information, we may yet be able to save lives if he knows what the diseases are."

"Right, Holmes. I shan't be but maybe ten minutes," the seaman replied, vanishing down the aft companionway toward the crew's quarters.

_**Watson**_

The wind had picked up as the sun began to set, sending a rather chilly breeze blowing over the second-class deck. I watched Lachlan disappear down the stairs and tallied up the count of ill and dead on the ship since we left London only a little over two weeks ago – it was simply monstrous.

The man was deranged and sick – and he had to be stopped.

The air was growing moist, indicating the storm was moving in with fair rapidity. I looked out at the cold grey water and shivered. I was sincerely glad that Smith was not in the habit of sinking the ships he attacked – I could not swim a stroke even in fair weather, and I had no desire whatsoever to learn how in an approaching storm like this.

Holmes was walking up and down the small deck, pacing away his frustration at inactivity. I was feeling rather claustrophobic from the low ceiling of the promenade deck above us, and I was about to suggest going above when Holmes suddenly stopped short, turning to scan the shadows around us with piercing eyes.

"What's the matter?"

"I thought I heard something."

"Just the wind, Holmes. And you say I have an overly dramatic imagination!" I teased him.

He quirked a half-smile but the worried look did not leave his face as we began to pace up and down together, waiting for Lachlan to return.

"You sent that telegram this morning, Holmes; and if you are right, then Smith had replaced one of the wireless operators for the purpose of intercepting it. Then why has the whole day passed with nothing happening at all?" I asked, puzzled.

We halted beside a companionway and Holmes turned to look at me thoughtfully.

"I suppose he could have been too busy finding ways to infect people – and he may be waiting until dark, Watson. Smith is brilliant, but he is not the type to openly just come barging into our stateroom with a revolver and shoot us in a direct confrontation. He is far too underhanded. He is waiting for a chance to strike when we have let down our guard."

I shivered.

_**Holmes**_

I was nonplussed as well by the fact that nothing untoward had happened all day to us. Knowing Smith, he would waste no time in ridding himself of me at his earliest possible convenience – why then had he not attempted it yet today?

I supposed he could be waiting for cover of the approaching storm, but it still did not seem very like his vindictive nature. I shook my head in some bewilderment, and Watson and I headed back toward the crew's quarters at the aft of the ship.

We had nearly reached them when I saw a furtive movement out of the corner of my eye in the shadows we had just passed.

I had only just time to shout a warning to Watson before we were set upon by three strongly built men.

Smith had _not_ wasted any time after all.

_**Watson**_

The fight happened with such rapidity that I had only a second's warning after Holmes's shout to me before I was engaged in fighting off a burly fellow weighing at least two stone more than I and carrying a heavy club.

I had no time to get my revolver out of my pocket; I had barely time to dodge the first stunning blow and frantically try to remember the self-defense maneuvers Holmes had hammered into my head over the years.

I dodged two more blows before being able to come up inside his last swing and ram my elbow hard into his stomach. He screamed in pain and clutched at it, giving me an opening at his face.

My right fist connected solidly with his jaw, but the man was strong as an ox – it appeared to have not shaken him in the least!

Dismayed, I ducked under the swinging club and tried again, only receiving a hard blow to my shoulder for my efforts, felling me to one knee.

As I dodged another swing that could have taken my head off, I absently worried about Holmes and his two attackers – how was he doing?

Too late, I saw that club coming hard at my head, and I had no time to do ought else but throw my arms up in front of my face, groping wildly to stop the swing. I connected with the weapon and grasped hold of the thing desperately.

The thug I was struggling with cursed and tried to shake me off but I held fast, knowing that it occupied his hands at least. He was jerking the stick back and forth, trying to get me to let go, and I clung even more stubbornly.

But I did not notice until it was far too late that he was forcing me close to the low railing of the second-class deck.

_**Holmes**_

Smith was not as brilliant as I had given him credit for – he obviously did not know me well enough to know that these two fellows were no match for my boxing and Baritsu skills. Even with the advantage of clubs, they were relying on brute force instead of skill as I was, and I was not having any great difficulty in overcoming them.

I dispatched the one by a neat application of leverage, landing him up against an iron pole; his head fetched up against the hard metal and he lay still at last. That left the smaller of the two, and I started carefully weaving out of the way of his huge sweeping swings; obviously the man was an amateur.

I had just ducked a rather bad attempt at a left cross and landed a blow to his midsection and followed it up by a crashing blow to the jaw when I heard running footsteps and a familiar voice shouting an order to stop the fighting – Lachlan was returning, thank heaven.

But the relief that flooded over me was suddenly and violently shattered as another cry, a very frightened one, reached my ears. Lachlan hauled the thug off of me and I spun round only just in time to see that the man Watson had been fighting with had shoved him too close to the low railing, and they were struggling on the brink of the deck.

As if in slow motion, my body frozen and unable to stop it, I saw his frightened eyes widen and heard his cry for help as their struggle grew too violent and without warning they both teetered on the edge – and then went over the low railing into the water below!

"Lachlan! Stop this ship!" I gasped, the sudden terror sweeping over me making my voice shake almost uncontrollably.

I struggled out of my jacket and kicked off my shoes. I had both hands already on the railing when Lachlan called back to me.

"Holmes, wait! You're not going to be able to help them – we'll pick them up when she stops!"

"Watson can't swim, Lachlan!" I shouted back to him.

I barely saw the horrified shock register in his blue eyes before I turned back to the cold grey water, scanning its depths for a sign of where they were now, choking down that icy lump of fear.

Wait – there, far to the left I saw a head break above water briefly before going under again. I cursed under my breath; we were moving faster than I had thought. I dimly heard Lachlan shouting the alarm of _man overboard_ before I took a deep breath and made a clean dive off the low deck into the water below.

_**Watson**_

I am the farthest thing from a fearful man as one can get – Holmes has described me as level-headed and sensible to the point of being stolidly dull at times. But once I land in water over my head, panic takes over rationality in my mind. (1)

When I felt myself falling over that low railing I panicked completely; I really could not swim a stroke and in consequence had always harbored a lurking fear of water. Few people knew about the weakness, for I had told no one save Sherlock Holmes – and he had learnt it completely by accident.

It all happened so quickly that I was not prepared for the coldness of the water, and in consequence I gasped when I hit, filling my mouth with the burning salty bitterness. I struggled furiously to reach the surface, not even knowing which direction was up.

I absently wondered where my attacker had fallen to, but my main worry right now was getting my head above water – I was already choking. Finally my head came above the water and I coughed violently, trying to catch a breath and attempting desperately to remember what Holmes had tried to tell me about staying afloat.

But I had not even caught one deep lungful of oxygen before I again slipped below the surface, this time absolutely panicking, all logical thoughts fleeing from my frenzied mind – I was going to drown!

_**Holmes**_

The water was the coldest thing I had felt since the mountain streams of Tibet – it nearly took my breath away when I first hit it, and I spluttered a good deal upon coming back to the surface from my dive.

I took a long breath, gasping for air, and suddenly the water lit up round me as the ship's searchlight was turned onto the depths. Good. Now, where was he?

I scanned the grey murky liquid round me frantically, knowing that Watson would not have been able to even keep himself up for more than a few seconds – where was he? I could not see anyone in the water, neither him nor the fellow he had been fighting with.

_Dear God, no. No, no, no. Please._

Then I suddenly saw a dark disturbance in the water several yards away and struck out for it, my franticness fueling me with an energy I did not know I possessed.

_**Watson**_

I cannot ever recall being so frightened, so absolutely terrified in my life – I couldn't breathe, my lungs were burning from a lack of oxygen, and no matter how hard I tried I could not seem to move toward the surface.

I could not hold my breath for more than a few more seconds now, I was already growing weak from the lack of air…I had to break above the water…it was not supposed to end like this!

_**Holmes**_

I grabbed the shadow in the water and then cursed – it was the man who had pushed Watson overboard.

I am by no means a heartless creature, but at that moment I had not the time to see if he were alive or not. Nor did I care, even a little. My dearest friend was out here in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, drowning because of him.

I shoved the man back toward the light that was following us, knowing that someone might be able to pick the unconscious fellow up before I found Watson.

And if they did not pick him up, it was no more than he deserved.

Where was Watson? I shivered in the water, thoroughly chilled in body and mind, sick to my stomach at the thought.

I am not a praying man by any means, but I was certainly praying then, hoping a kind Providence that I had been guilty of pointedly ignoring in the past might take pity upon me and answer.

I swam in a circle, trying to spot anything in the water, any sign, any ripples, anything at all.

_Nothing._

I paused for a moment, treading water, peering frantically round me – and then I saw Watson, only twenty feet away, finally break above the water for what looked to be the last time, choking and struggling frantically at this point.

With a whispered prayer of gratitude I instantly struck out for him and caught him just as he slipped under again.

_**Watson**_

My lungs felt as if they were on fire…I couldn't breathe, there was water over my head for what seemed like miles…I was drowning!

I fought desperately, my self-preservation instincts starting up even after my mind had already registered the fact that I was drowning, and I still feebly struggled for the surface, what I hoped was the surface, knowing in my heart that I was not going to survive this.

All at once I felt air above my flailing hands and suddenly I got one breath. This did nothing but set me coughing as the water in my lungs protested the arrival of oxygen. I struggled desperately to remain above the water, but I knew it was of no use, I was too weak.

I made one final effort to stay afloat, thrashing about wildly in an effort to keep my head above water, but I felt myself slipping again. Panicking, I struggled frantically, my arms and legs flailing, but they were heavy as lead and cold as ice – I could barely move them.

I choked as I took in a mouthful of water and felt my head start to go under for what I knew would be the last time…it really was going to end in this sordid fashion…

"All right, Watson, I've got you – stop struggling!"

Something grabbed my thrashing arm and yanked my head above water again, and through the ringing in my ears I heard a familiar voice.

I choked and coughed, the water in my lungs burning my throat.

"Watson – stop struggling – you'll pull us both under! I have you – now stop it, man!"

That cold clear voice snapped a frantic command that finally registered in my desperate mind and for a moment I was thinking lucidly.

But then I started to slip under again and the panic returned; I couldn't drown now, not with help right here?

My mouth filled with water again and I choked, my struggles becoming weaker. I felt a strong arm wrap around my waist and a hand pulled my own arm round a pair of thin shoulders.

My head was spinning now, my ears were ringing, and I could not hear what he was saying to me, but I was suddenly blinded by a bright light round us in the water, and something landed with a splash a few feet in front of us.

Holmes held me close to him and reached out to grab the life-preserver, bringing it back towards us. I clung to the round flotation with a devout prayer of gratefulness, my teeth chattering from cold and fright.

_**Holmes**_

It was a lucky thing that Watson was half-drowned when I reached him and his struggles were feeble, for his fear and panic were so great that he probably would have drowned us both, for I would never have let go of him and he would have pulled me under as well.

I snatched at the life-preserver, pulling it towards us as I became dimly aware of shouting on board the ship above us. Watson let go of me to cling to the flotation device, latching on with both arms in a death-grip.

I grasped the device with one hand and comfortingly rubbed his shoulder with the other as he choked and coughed – he had to have swallowed an enormous amount of water, and I knew his stomach would be rebelling shortly.

"Easy, old fellow, it's all right now," I murmured shakily as his gasping breathing erupted into another coughing fit, glancing above us to see the slow progress of our prospective rescue – for the love of heaven, had they never had a man overboard before?

Watson moaned and shivered violently, probably from fright as much as from cold. Then he dissolved into another coughing bout, producing a good bit of seawater, his body wracking with the painful movement.

I saw his grip on the life-preserver was slipping and I wrapped a strong arm round his waist again and tightened my other hand's grasp on the device, feeling him trembling with fear and the reaction of the closeness of the thing.

He took a long shuddering breath at last, still shaking all over, and then glanced over at my worried face as we waited for the rescue to commence.

"I – I h-hate water!" he gasped weakly, trying gallantly to manage a small sense of humor.

"I know, old chap," I returned soothingly as he coughed up some more of the stuff – what was taking those confounded seamen so long?

Watson moaned again, going limp against me after the fit had passed, and then he took a ragged breath and again glanced in my direction.

"Thank you," he whispered, closing his eyes and leaning against the life-preserver.

I blinked rapidly and convulsively tightened my grip on my friend in the cold water, fervently glad that I was soaking wet at that moment.

For then no one could tell that the salty drops on my face was from my eyes and not the cold grey ocean.

(1) _Many thanks to __**Igiveup**__ for inspiring part of this chapter from her story "__**Deep Waters**__" – please go check it out after you leave a review, won't you?_


	27. Being Captain

"One of the advantages of being Captain is being able to ask for advice without necessarily having to take it." - James T. Kirk

Chapter 27: "Being Captain"

_**Lachlan**_

The wet line in my hands burned as I pulled it in, and I harbored a cold knot of fear in my stomach for the two men on the other end. 

It was no small thing to take a ducking in the ocean, for even in may the water was frigid at night, and for a man who did not know how to swim… 

There isn't a sailor born who does not fear and respect the sea, but I felt as home in the water as a fish and could not comprehend the panic that seized some men upon entering it.

I had seen it though, seen men lose themselves completely, men as levelheaded as the Doctor. 

I pulled harder and shouted at the men assisting me to do so as well.

After what seemed to be a great deal of time the white life-preserver came into view and I was greatly relieved to see the arms clinging tightly to it. 

The Doctor had seized the object in a death grip and Holmes was holding onto it one-handed, his other arm around his friend's waist, keeping him steady. 

As they drew level with the low deck I let go of the rope, seized hold of the two men and pulled them up through the gap in the railing.

_**Watson**_

The cold air hit me like a kick in the stomach as we rose at last from the frigid water. I gasped in shock and began shivering violently, weakening my grip on the life preserver.

Holmes's grip round my waist tightened and he spoke quietly.

"Hold on, old fellow, we're almost there - hang on a bit longer."

I had little choice but to do so and clung to the white flotation for everything I was worth, trying not to notice the black water beneath our feet or the shaking of Holmes's arms as he struggled with the cold and the strain of keeping hold of me and he preserver. 

After a time that seemed to stretch too long to be measured I felt a strong hand grip the back of my collar and I was pulled up sharply. My knees hit a flat, wonderfully solid surface and Holmes's arm released me. Without the support of it I fell forward and landed heavily onto the deck, too numb to feel the texture of the wood beneath my cheek, lost to the convulsions that shook me and made my teeth chatter. 

Movement was too much effort, cost too much warmth, and for a few moments at least I was contented with the stability of the deck.

Then Holmes's concerned voice sounded beside me, stuttering from the cold. 

"W-Watson." 

I felt his shaking hands on my shoulders, only to be joined by the strong grip once again, wonderfully warm and solid through my soaked jacket. 

"I've got him, Holmes. Look to yourself for a moment."

My friend released me reluctantly and the hands moved to remove my jacket, pulling my freezing arms through the sleeves, placing a heavy blanket round my shoulders.

It was far too cold; my muscles were seizing up, restricting both the shivering and movement. The breeze bit harshly into my ears and face, freezing the skin and my soaked hair on my brow. I tried to curl in on myself to preserve the little warmth I had but the insistent grip and the steady voice would not let me be.

"Doctor…can you hear me? Can't have you going to sleep now, come on." 

I turned my head away from the faces and the voices and the lights, if they would just leave me alone I would be all right.

The hands took hold of my shoulders and pulled me up, allowing cold air into the cocoon of warmth I had been trying to maintain. I shivered again and opened my mouth to protest. 

My lungs seized the opportunity and I choked as they strove to expel the water I had inhaled. I was lifted to my hands and knees just as the worst bout of coughing so far took hold. 

My insides twisted, it felt as though my lungs and ribs were being squeezed, I lost all proportion and sense of space and could only crouch there as nature took its course and what seemed to be gallons of water surged from my already burning throat. 

I began to gag and choke as my lungs tried to take in the painfully cold air at the same time, I shook not only with cold now but with my struggle to breathe. 

My head spun and I was dimly aware of a voice in my ear and a hand pounding my back soundly. 

"Let it out Doctor…good man…they know better'n you what to do…easy…you'll get air soon enough…slow and easy."

Finally it stopped and I gasped in one lungful of air and then another, feeling as though the inside of my chest had been scorched with fire and the outside bruised by an enormous fist. But the flow of air was steady now, and my heart began to slow as the oxygen cleared my head. It was so cold.

One hand patted my back, the other bracing my shoulder. I turned my head to see the concerned blue gaze of Lachlan…and beyond him the white alarmed face of Holmes. 

"Are you all right, Doctor?"

I croaked something unintelligible through my raw throat and then nodded in case they had not understood. I was still cold, still shivering. It seemed as though I had never been warm in my entire life…I certainly could not recall what it felt like.

Lachlan smiled shakily, a little pale himself. 

"Do you think you can stand? We ought to get you and Mr. Holmes out of these wet clothes with something hot to drink."

I nodded again, not trusting myself not to break out into another bout of coughing and was grateful when Lachlan pulled my arm round his shoulder, helping me to rise. 

The movement almost changed my mind, for it brought my skin in contact with my soaked clothing and the freezing air. My shivering grew violent again as my blood rushed through me again returning some feeling. This only made it worse and I tried to sink once again onto the deck. 

Lachlan would not let me, but spoke sternly.

"Doctor. If you stay on this deck I have little doubt that you'll be frozen solid in no time at all. And since Holmes has no intention of leaving you, he will be as well. That's hardly fair so you brace up and come with me to where we can get you warm…all right?"

I swallowed as a wave of guilt washed over me, both from my weakness and my panic in the water. It certainly was not fair to Holmes when he had already done more than I could possibly have asked. 

I looked back to Holmes where he stood, a blanket wrapped round his shoulders, his dark hair plastered against his head, shivering as I was. He gave me a smile and spoke softly, his voice under control now. 

"Go on, Watson…just behind you."

"Right." 

I gasped and clenched my jaw against the cold as the sailor steered me toward the companion way, a bracing arm round my shoulders, forging a way through the gathering crowd. 

We had not gone far, however, when there was a commotion just ahead of us, and a man in a naval uniform pushed his way forward. 

He was younger than Lachlan and clean-shaven, but at the sight of him the midshipman straightened and I believe he would have raised a hand to his hat in salute had he not been supporting me. 

"Midshipman," the man snapped in a voice as crisp as his uniform. "What's happened here?"

"Lieutenant," Lachlan returned, his voice cool and calm and far more assured in comparison. "These men were attacked, knocked overboard, and with your permission, Sir, I intended to take them inside." 

This to me seemed as though it should be obvious for the Lieutenant to see for himself and from the soft mutter of Holmes just behind us he shared my opinion. 

He was not able to express this opinion, however, for at that moment my stomach decided that, like my lungs, it did not enjoy the seawater I had swallowed. 

I barely had time to stagger to the railing before I began to retch violently and expel the vile liquid and other bile down into the ocean. 

The attack lasted for several long moments and Lachlan's hands braced me the entire time, tense with concern. 

When at last it ended I rested my head against the cool metal, feeling weak and dizzy once more, my throat burning. A third hand came to rest on my shoulder and I knew from its light but firm touch that it was Holmes's.

I heard the officer clear his throat somewhere behind me and he spoke again. 

"Very well, Midshipman, carry on…I will take charge of the troublemakers. When your charges are feeling well enough then the captain would like a word with all of us in the lounge."

Holmes's hand clenched convulsively and though I could not see his face I knew he was taken aback by this sudden turn…and probably not at all pleased.

Lachlan spoke before he could object, releasing one of my shoulders to salute, "Aye, sir."

The Lieutenant departed and Lachlan pulled my arm round his shoulder again, helping me down the stairs and the hall until we reached the cabins. 

Holmes unlocked his with a fumbling hand and disappeared inside, waving off Lachlan's offers of assistance. 

"See to Watson."

Lachlan nodded and helped me into my room where I sat heavily onto the bed, grateful that the air was warmer at least. 

Lachlan turned to my open trunk, drew out a selection of fresh clothing, and laid it beside me in a pile.

"Thank you," I said, shaking still. He nodded. going to the door. 

"I'll be back in a moment," he said, closing it behind him.

I sat for a moment, reveling in the warmth of the room and the blanket round my shoulders; then, motivated by the chill of my still-wet clothes, I began to fumble open my shirt. 

It took me a deucedly long time to dress, though I was thankful for Lachlan's tact in not offering to help me. It would have been easier to be sure but would have made me feel quite useless. 

The dry clothing felt wonderful against my chill skin and I used the wool blanket that had been round my shoulders to towel dry my hair. 

But still there was a lingering chill, and I pulled on not only a fresh jacket but wrapped one of the spare blankets above my bed round my shoulders to replace the other. 

The door to my cabin opened and I was overjoyed to see Holmes enter, dressed in dry clothing, his hair combed back; though he was still rather pale and let out a convulsive shiver, giving me a slight smile. 

"All right, Watson?"

"B-better." I said, not sure whether to be pleased or ashamed that my friend had practically ceased to shiver. 

It did not surprise me in the least of course - Holmes had always been, and would be until the end, the master of his own physical weaknesses. 

He nodded, though his eyes continued to probe me, unconvinced. At last he spoke again.

"You did very well, old fellow."

I stared at him in some surprise.

"No, I mean it. I have to admit I never expected you to keep yourself afloat for that long."

"Well thank you very much for that vote of confidence," I replied dryly.

His mouth twitched in a smile.

"I am perfectly serious, old chap. You did very well indeed; I did not reach you until the last; up until then you were preserved through your own efforts."

"I could have drowned you, Holmes, and would have too if I had been more than half-conscious when you got to me!"I exclaimed.

"No, you wouldn't have, Watson."

"Yes, I would - you know how I panic whenever I get in water over my head!" I was heartily ashamed still of my behaviour. 

"Yes, I know," he replied, a twinkle coming into his grey eyes as he looked at me, "I learnt that lesson long ago, so I was fully prepared to knock you unconscious there in the water if necessary. Thankfully your admirable self-control negated that rather painful alternative."

I stared at him for a minute and then broke into a badly needed laugh at the very idea of his ever raising a hand to me.

"I should hope you would do it if you had to," I said with a small grin.

"I shall find an opportunity someday, have no doubt," he replied with a mischievous smile, sitting on the bunk beside me and fiddling with the tie and collar about his neck. 

I frowned, wondering why he should bother with such things at a time like this. 

He noticed my gaze and let out a short laugh. "All for the sake of appearances, Watson. The Captain, I feel, will be more inclined to listen to a well-dressed gentleman than a half-drowned wretch. I shall leave that part up to you."

"I beg your pardon?"

He continued with his mischievous smile, indicating he was only teasing. 

"You do look a little under the bar, Watson." he said indicating my no doubt bloodshot eyes and salt-encrusted, stiffening hair. 

I nodded and got to my feet, going to the faucet and turning the taps until a cascade of warm water ran out. Then I stuck my head beneath it, washing the salt from my hair and skin, letting it run though my nose and mouth and dispelling the bitter, gagging taste. 

I straightened, blinking, my head sufficiently thawed by the downpour, and fumbled blindly for the hand cloth that hung beside the sink. 

Someone pressed it into my hand and I dried my face, then looked up to see not Holmes but Lachlan, who smiled and held out a steaming mug toward me. 

"I would have thought you'd had enough of swimming for a while, Doctor…but it seems you just can't keep your head out of the water."

_**Holmes**_

Watson's shivering had finally stopped by the time we made our way to the lounge, though he was still dreadfully pale beneath his still wet mop of dark hair, and an occasional shudder wracked his frame.

Lachlan strode just in front of us, rather like a guard, his blue eyes probing every shadow we passed. I was profoundly grateful of his stolid presence, for both Watson and I were still quite tired through our efforts. 

I relied on him to keep watch and turned my thoughts inward. If I was to convince this captain of the threat against his ship then I would need all my wits about me. 

My thoughts were interrupted at last as Lachlan stopped at the door to the lounge and turned back. 

"Mr. Holmes…is there anything I should do or say when we get inside? I owe a duty to this man but your orders come first in this matter."

I smiled and shook my head. 

"No, Lachlan. This matter may put the Captain off enough without revealing the fact that one of his own men is involved. We would not want to ruin you nautical reputation. I imagine…" - I turned to look at Watson - "…that the good Doctor will delay the publication of this account for the very same reason."

Watson sighed but affirmed this. "Holmes can handle it from here."

The seaman nodded, his face a study in calm. 

"Right then." He placed his hand on the door and pushed it open.

The lounge had been emptied of its nighttime revelers and now held a much smaller and official-looking group.

The two men who had attacked us were seated on one of the sofas, their hands cuffed in front of them, and they were flanked by two officers of lower rank whose uniforms much resembled Lachlan's.

The annoying lieutenant stood stiffly in parade rest, his eyes upon a rather stoutly built figure who strode back and forth in front of the captives, his hands clasped behind him. 

Upon our entrance he turned and fixed us with an engaging green glare, his black and white pepper brows set in a scowl. His ruffled white hair attested to the fact that he had been roused from sleep. He was clean-shaven and, to adopt Watson's rather colorful habit of description, reminded one of a bulldog with drooping jowls.

At the sight of him our midshipman straightened and adopted a professional quality that was almost foreign to his nature.

"You." The captain barked, pointing a finger at his officer and adding to his canine resemblance, "Lachlan, wasn't it?"

"Aye, sir." Lachlan said smoothly, his face studiously blank.

"The Lieutenant here tells me you saw this entire affair play out…can you tell me just what happened?"

Lachlan shifted his weight onto his right foot, the one nearest me, and I felt a streak of amusement at his silent signal. I nodded slightly and he began to speak.

He outlined briefly the fight and my subsequent rescue of Watson, making it sound as though he had merely been strolling by and had happened to see us. 

He also recounted the taking of our captives and reported the loss of the third who had never resurfaced after I had abandoned him for my friend.

The captain listened attentively, though with a rather impatient scowl on his face. When the narrative had finished he turned his gaze upon me and Watson. 

"You, sir," he said, fixing me with those green eyes. I met the gaze with my own, unflinching, and though the captain did not look intimidated I think he recognized that I was not a man to be bullied. 

"What is your name, sir? And can you tell me why such an outrage has been committed on my ship?"

I took a calming breath, for I had never been good with officials, years of association with Scotland Yard and Lestrade notwithstanding. 

"My name is Sherlock Holmes and this is my friend and colleague Dr. John Watson. And I rather think these men know more about the matter than we."

The captain's eyebrows rose in recognition of our names, and for once I was inclined to be grateful for Watson's narratives, this would make things a great deal easier. 

"Sherlock Holmes." he said slowly.

"You know me."

"I know enough to realize that you do not waste your time on unestablished matters, Mr. Holmes, and also that you have quite a few men who bear you grudges. Are these two…" he gestured to the scowling sailors on the couch. "…merely out for revenge or were they sent to impede you on an investigation?"

"A little of both, Captain. These men, who signed on under your jurisdiction, are in truth the hired thugs of a dangerous man who is currently aboard your ship."

The captain's face fell slightly at this. "On _my_ ship."

"Yes. Dr. Watson…" I gestured to my friend who stood at my shoulder as staunch as ever. "Can attest to the truth of my story…and of course Midshipman Lachlan was a witness to the struggle on deck just now."

The captain sighed and scowled at me. "You know this dangerous individual?"

"We have crossed paths before, but that is not important. What _is_ important is that these men know where he is, and that if you find him then you shall solve the problem of the mysterious illnesses that have to date claimed the lives of 3 of your crew and 1 of your passengers."

At this statement the captain paled outright, for the illnesses had been held in fairly strict confidence until now. 

"How do you know about those?"

"It is a rather long story, sir, that I will be happy to tell you…if I might trouble you to allow my companion to sit; Dr. Watson had a bad time in the water as a result of his struggle."

Watson shot me a look of humour and gratitude at the same time, for he did not wish his phobia to be broadcast. 

The captain nodded impatiently and waved Watson to a couch before sitting himself.

I drew a cigarette from my pocket and paused before lighting it, looking to the captain. Again he nodded. 

I struck a match and began my narrative.

_**Watson**_

Holmes began his narrative as I sank gratefully onto the couch. The captain watched him astutely, his hands gripping the arms of his chair. 

The account was brief and to the point as was the way with Holmes, who strode back and forth as he spoke, commanding the attention of his audience as well as any master magician revealing a trick.

He gave the essential details of our first encounter with Smith and continued to talk about the 'client' who had appeared in Baker Street and told us of the vanishing ships, our brushes with the unusual fever, our subsequent investigation of the ship, and the deductions we had made so far.

At last he came to a stop in front of the captives and though his words were to the room in general his glare was solely for them. 

"And I have little doubt that one of these fellows here can lead us to Smith's cabin, where Dr. Watson I will be more than happy to identify him as a convicted criminal; and where, I am fully confident, you will find his collected cultures of these very unique diseases."

One of the villains shivered at this though his companion only scowled. 

For a moment there was silence then the captain rose to his feet and addressed Holmes.

"You are correct as far as my knowledge takes me, Mr. Holmes. I have known about the deterioration of this line for some time; and if you have indeed found the solution than I would be a fool not to listen to you."

The man raised a severe finger and though he was several inches shorter than Holmes he seemed to tower for a moment.

"But if I discover that there is no truth to your words than my reputation will be irreversibly marked. I am placing my trust in you because you strike me as a competent man. Do not give me reason to regret my actions."

Holmes stood completely unaffected by this speech, and met the captain's glare squarely. 

"You will not regret it," he said softly and after a moment the captain nodded. 

"I don't suppose you would care to dispel the name of your client?"

"I am honor-bound to keep his identity out of this, Captain…a courtesy I extend to all my clients if they wish it." 

I felt a laugh rise in my chest at this and was forced to swallow it, schooling my face to sobriety. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Lachlan shift slightly.

The captain sighed but did not press the matter. 

"Very well, Mr. Holmes, if you will assist me in extracting the information we need from these men than I will help you take this Smith. And then we shall contact Scotland Yard, make for the nearest dock, and you and the Doctor and Mr. Smith will get off of my ship!"


	28. Leadership

"The only safe ship in a storm is leadership." - Faye Wattleton quotes

Chapter 28: "Leadership"

_**Watson**_

"There you are, Doctor – not very good-tasting, but it's hot at least," Lachlan said, handing me a bowl of soup from the galley.

Holmes had noticed I was looking rather peaked and had asked the captain if I might retire until he had gotten the necessary information out of the two men who had attacked us. Lachlan had been told to take me back to my cabin and he had now returned with a bowl of soup.

As the ship bobbed slightly, I heard a clap of distant thunder.

"Is the storm whipping up, Lachlan?" I asked, sipping the soup.

"Aye, Doctor, she promises to be a real squall," the man replied, gazing out of the porthole through which a stout breeze was blowing.

I finished the bowl of broth with gratitude, very glad to have something at least semi-solid in my stomach after all that seawater, and I now retrieved my soaked revolver from my coat on the floor and began to clean it, very glad indeed that it had not been lost in the sea – we might have need of it later.

"How're you feelin', Doctor?"

"Much better now – although if this storm is bad enough, I could very well join the rest of the seasick lubbers before the night is over," I said with a smile, taking apart the gun and preparing to clean it with the soft cloths I carried in my trunk for that purpose.

"Ye get seasick, Doctor?"

"Yes, I confess I do."

"You get seasick and you can't swim – you really should stay on land, Doctor!" the man said, his eyes twinkling.

I rubbed the gun barrel and looked up at him with a smile. 

"I haven't yet thanked you, have I, Lachlan?"

"Nothin' to thank me for, Doctor – it was your friend Mr. Holmes that did all the hard part. I only just pulled you both in, I did. Man of nerve, Holmes is – I've never seen a man dive overboard from a passenger liner as fast as he did, and straight into a dark ocean too. You're both copper-bottomed, by my way of reckoning."

I smiled, feeling my face soften. "I'm rather a lucky man, am I not?"

"Quite. No one would have got to you in time."

"That was not quite what I meant," I murmured softly.

"I hardly thought it was, Doctor," he replied with a smile, glancing out of the porthole at the approaching storm.

"Well, thank you at any rate, Lachlan – you have been more than a help to us this voyage, and I really don't know what we should have done without you," I said sincerely, nearly finished cleaning my gun.

I heard steps outside the door and hastily spread the cloth over the gun in case it was a member of the crew – I was not supposed to have it with me – but I was relieved to see the familiar thin figure of Sherlock Holmes entering the room without preamble.

"Are you feeling all right, Watson?" he asked on the instant, looking at me worriedly.

"Yes, I am fine." 

I snapped the pieces of my gun back together and loaded it.

"Good, then I need you. Lachlan, the captain has ordered you to oversee Smith's capture since you seemed to be acquainted with the details."

"Right, Mr. Holmes. Do you need reinforcements?"

"No, more people involved would only clutter up the place and hinder my movements."

"You have found out where his stateroom is!" I said excitedly, snapping my trunk shut and stuffing the gun into my coat pocket.

"Yes, that sniveling little man that Lachlan yanked off me in the fight was rather easily cowed – did not want to face the charge of being an accessory to murder so he talked quite well for me."

Holmes's face had darkened in suppressed anger, and his eyes glittered with that feverish excitement that boded ill for the object of our quest.

"This storm brewing will aid us – the passengers will for the most part be in their cabins; we shall not have to worry about innocents being harmed if Smith attempts an escape," I said, picking up my coat. 

I winced as I pulled it on – that man's club had connected solidly with my shoulder, and I was devoutly glad it was not my bad limb. Nevertheless, it would be paining me for several days.

"And Smith should be in his cabin – I don't relish hunting about for the man in the middle of a dark night even _without_ a storm, much less right now with this gale," Holmes replied.

Seeing my discomfort, he stepped over and held the coat so that I could put it on without straining.

"Thank you. Where are the two sailors who attacked us?"

"The Lieutenant is seeing them thrown into the brig." 

"And the third never got rescued?" I asked, thinking back to those awful minutes int eh water with a slight shiver.

"It was either he or you, Watson. I was not about to choose him. And now come, for it is time we sent that maniac to join his henchmen. We can delay no longer – the Captain just received word that two more people have become ill."

Lachlan swore under his breath as Holmes opened the door and looked back. His eyes met mine, and I saw in them a tiny bit of nervousness that was instantly squelched by his unbelievable self-control. Nonetheless, I nodded to him reassuringly and he smiled, his brow unfurrowing. And he set off without a word, trusting me to follow him.

_**Holmes**_

I gleaned no little satisfaction in intimidating that ruffian into telling me where Smith's stateroom was – Watson's terrified cries as he fell into the cold ocean were still ringing in my head no matter how hard I tried to block them out, and the sounds were enough to drive me to the very edge of even my self-control. I was very glad to have an outlet for those disturbing emotions.

Watson has said that I am rather frightening when angry, and evidently it is true - for the man was more than glad to tell me the location after very little…prodding. Smith was in one of the first class staterooms, on the corridor above mine and Watson's, which happened to be the very highest one on the ship. Apparently the man had a laboratory set up in his stateroom and never came out unless he was going to infect people.

There I had it.

If it were going to be that simple.

I listened intently, quelling my impatience with the stolid captain's methodical orders as he explained to me crisply that Lachlan was to aid me and the Lieutenant to take the two men to the brig. 

"And keep my warning in mind, Mr. Holmes. If this is some sort of publicity stunt for your fantastic return to life, then you shall regret it, I promise you that," the man had warned me.

"I give you my word of honour, this is no stunt, Captain."

"Very good. Then you and the prisoner will get off my ship at the first port of call. Tell Midshipman Lachlan to notify me the instant the man is apprehended."

"Yes, Captain."

"Very good. You are dismissed, Mr. Holmes," the man said crisply, almost acting as if I were a member of the crew.

I discarded my first instinct which was to throw a mocking salute, thinking better of it and rather employing the small amount of tact I do possess. I quickly left the lounge and headed for our staterooms, keeping a sharp eye out for Smith.

But the man had no reason yet to suspect his men had not succeeded in sending both Watson and me to a watery grave, for it had only been an hour since it had all occurred. I sincerely hoped Smith was in his stateroom; it would keep the whole denouement so much tidier and free of anyone innocent being harmed in the process of apprehension.

The wind had picked up enormously, and I actually had to fight my way to the companionway – the squall would hit us before morning, judging from the look of the dark clouds looming up and obscuring the moon.

I rapped sharply on the door of Watson's stateroom and entered, hoping to find him looking slightly better than he had in the lounge. I dearly wished I could allow him to have a night of rest, for he certainly needed and deserved it – but I had to have aid in facing Smith. And selfishly speaking, he was the only man I wanted, the only person in the world I really trusted to watch my back.

He glanced up as I entered, a relieved look spreading over his pale face, and as I shut the door I saw he was cleaning his revolver from its dip in the ocean – good man. We might have need of it shortly.

I informed him and Lachlan of what we were about to do and then opened the door resolutely. I swallowed down a twinge of nervousness and glanced back at Watson and Lachlan. The former nodded and gave me a reassuring nudge out into the corridor and we were soon on our way up the companionway to the top corridor of staterooms.

Smith had landed the one on the very outside end – that way no one would notice if he rarely emerged from his room as well as there being less chance of crew members walking about. I heard Watson's breathing quicken behind me as the sea rolled and a clap of thunder heralded the coming storm.

_Oh, dear heaven, don't let him get seasick at a time like this!_

Because of the wind whipping about us, I was unable to distinguish whether there was any noise from inside Smith's stateroom.

"Anything?" Watson whispered close to my ear.

I shook my head, trying to hear once more.

"Nothing. All right. There's nothing else for it," I said, glancing back at them and hoping my brisk manner would cover my unease.

Watson nodded, and Lachlan eyed me quizzically. I tried the doorknob.

Locked.

"Shall I shoot the lock off?"

"No, it will alert him, as well as drawing the attention of everyone within hearing distance. Besides," I continued in a whisper, "the Captain gave me a master key."

"Ah."

I heard Watson's revolver cock as he got on the other side of the doorway. I glanced at him to make sure he was ready and then noiselessly inserted the key in the lock. I was acutely conscious of the wind whipping about us as I did so.

"Ready?"

"Always."

"Right then."

I twisted the key in the lock and flung the door open, stepping inside with Watson aiming the gun over my shoulder – 

But the stateroom was dark and empty.

I cursed loudly, and Watson stepped warily into the room beside me. 

"Not here?" Lachlan's voice came from behind us.

"No," I replied wearily, "shut the door."

Once shut, I lit the gas and looked round the stateroom. It was set up in the same fashion as mine and Watson's – there was nowhere to hide.

Along one wall was a table upon which stood some basic chemical experimental equipment and a few jars and petrie dishes. A locked trunk sat under the table, and I assumed the rest of Smith's ghastly equipment was contained therein.

"Where do you suppose he is?" Watson asked, pocketing his revolver slowly.

"Probably out infecting people," Lachlan muttered.

"It is immaterial where he is. For now, we must get rid of his arsenal before it has a chance to do more damage," I said resolutely.

Both Lachlan and Watson's faces turned a shade paler.

"You mean – we have to handle all those germs?"

"Yes, Lachlan. Do you or Watson either have cuts or scratches on your hands?" I asked briskly.

"I have a raw spot on my left hand, the skin got rubbed off when I was hauled up onto the deck earlier," Watson replied.

"Then don't touch anything. Guard the door."

"But –"

"There is not room for argument, Watson. These germs can only be transmitted through the bloodstream, not by touch – Smith had to be able to regulate them so they can't be contagious by touch," I said, interrupting his protests.

"You do not know that for certain! The disease he gave you four years ago was contagious by touch! He might have it lying about!" Watson's pale face was even whiter now.

"If so, it will be inside something," I replied calmly, "he would not take a chance upon infecting himself. Now be a good chap and don't distract us. Dropping one of the germ cultures would not be the wisest thing for us to do."

I regretted my attempt at humour when his face paled even more and he swallowed hard, visibly shaken.

"Watson, it will be fine. Now, the wind is too high for you to be able to listen for Smith coming back – are you up to standing outside and watching?" I asked seriously, being able to deduce from his features that he was feeling nowhere near up to par – but this had to be done tonight, now.

He nodded, turning a little grey as the boat bobbed again slightly.

"Are you getting seasick?"

"Not yet. What do you want me to do if I see Smith – wait a moment, I don't even know what he looks like now!"

"None of us do. If you see anyone approaching, come back into the cabin and we shall all wait together to see if it is he. I want you taking no chances, Watson," I said sternly, "do not let him see you."

My staunch friend nodded, casting another apprehensive look at the equipment on the table before exiting the room, leaving the door ajar.

"Now, Lachlan. If you will have the goodness to open the porthole, we shall destroy this man's arsenal once and forever."

The seaman nodded, opening the porthole and letting a monstrous breeze in through it – I saw a blinding flash of lightning, realizing it was fully dark now. I started tossing the jars and dishes from the table out the window, not caring what they contained. The stuff was too dangerous to be anywhere near human beings.

For ten minutes I and the sailor removed all Smith's cultivations and germ colonies, letting the grey waves carry them far from this ill-fated ship. Then I picked the lock on the trunk under the table and found (to my relief) not jars and cultures but rather many notepads and books as well as various dry elements – obviously the cures for some of the diseases and Smith's notes, judging by the look of things.

"Holmes! Man coming this way!" I heard Watson's hissing voice as he shut the door and turned off the gas.

I heard the click of his revolver as we waited tensely for the door to open. After a good ten minutes, we realized it was a false alarm. I turned the gas back up just as an enormous clap of thunder seemed to rock the room.

"She's a fair nasty cloudburst, this," Lachlan said.

Watson eyed the waves out the window before taking a deep breath and heading out to the corridor once again.

I watched as Lachlan laid a hand on his arm, and again I heard that odd phrase, "Vows made in storms," as the seaman reminded Watson of it – I still had no idea what it meant. But obviously Watson did, for he flashed the seaman a slightly less tense smile and resolutely stepped back into the hall. 

I made a mental note to question my friend about it just as the cloudburst we had been expecting broke with enough force to send rain crashing in almost horizontally through the open porthole. Lachlan jumped for it and slammed it shut against the deluge.

I hastily went to the door to pull Watson back inside, only to see that I was too late – he was already close to being completely drenched. The glare he was giving me would have been comical had the situation not been so dire.

"I – hate – water," he growled, arms folded and his gun inside his coat to protect it from the wet.

I tried not to smile, but failed dismally when he finally did, grinning at me ruefully as the rain poured down off his hair, soaked for the second time that night.

"I am so sorry, Watson," I said, desperately trying not to laugh outright at his disgruntled face, "but you look like – what is it?"

He was staring at something past my head.

"That was him! At least the same height and he still has that bald forehead – he took one look this direction at the two of us and ran the other way like the devil were after him!" he cried, pointing toward the companionway.

"Lachlan!" I shouted above the wind, taking off at a dead run, Watson close at my heels.

I stumbled down the slippery companionway as fast as I could go, and considerably faster than was safe; and just in time saw the man disappear around a corner in our own corridor. A blast of wind nearly blew me into a stateroom door, but I hurried after the man, conscious of the rain lashing against the deck and my own person.

I hurried round the corner and saw the man scrambling down another set of stairs. I heard a loud thud behind me and turned to see Watson picking himself up slowly – he had fallen on the slippery deck.

"Go on!" he shouted instantly, seeing my hesitation. 

I turned and raced after Smith, for I had seen the high bald forehead as well in the gas lamps now, and I agreed with Watson – it had to be he. No one else would have thought to run from two men standing outside the last stateroom topside.

I stumbled down the steps, slipping when nearly down and tumbling the rest of the way, barely keeping from sliding to a heap on the floor. Smith had run down the corridor and was disappearing.

Free now from the driving rain and wind, I sprinted after him for all I was worth, passing only a few members of the crew – I did not recognize where we were heading now, but I could definitely see no passengers. 

Smith disappeared through a door and I halted there, realizing it was the only entrance to one of the cargo bays. I had him trapped – but the cargo area was a perfect place to hide; all he had to do was wait until we were far enough away from the entrance and he could get out again.

"Is he – in there?" I heard Watson gasp as he caught up to me.

"Yes. You all right?"

"Quite. Slippery up there. Well, what are we waiting for?"

"Where is Lachlan?"

"He was behind me – I told him to not let anyone up that companionway. It's one of two egresses from this part of the ship. That is a cargo bay, is it not?"

"Yes. Your revolver?"

"Right here."

"Be careful, then – and stick close to me! If we get separated we are both done for," I said determinedly, "he is probably carrying germs on him in a syringe or something, hoping to get a shot at us."

"That's a horrible pun, even from you, Holmes!"

I chuckled. Watson would always retain that odd sense of humour, even to the last.

But I had no intention of this _being_ the last.

"Are you with me?"

"Aren't I always?"

"Yes, but it is courteous to ask."

"Since when have you bothered with common courtesy, Holmes?"

I grinned, clapping him on the shoulder.

"Right then. Let us finish this sordid drama like we began it, eh?"

"I am right behind you."

And that was all the assurance I needed. I pushed open the door of the cargo bay.


	29. Bearing Down

Chapter 29: "Bearing Down"

Bear Down: Nautical term meaning to sail downwind rapidly towards another ship or landmark.

_**Holmes**_

The cargo bay was filled with boxes and crates of all shapes and sizes, lit only by gas lamps in the walls that were now swinging wildly as the ship rocked, tossing flickering shadows on everything and making the mind believe everywhere it saw movement. This was not going to be as easy as I had anticipated.

I shut the door, looking round me and silently listening for any movement to tell me where Smith had hidden himself – it could be anywhere in here, there were too many places he could be sitting unnoticed.

I could feel Watson shivering close to me in his nearly soaked clothes, the gun in his hand trembling slightly. I would have given him my overcoat if it would not have made too much noise, but we had to be absolutely silent. I had no idea if Smith were armed other than his germs.

I heard a rustling to the side of us, and Watson's gun instantly swiveled in that direction as I stared at the shadows – only to see a disgustingly large rat scurry out of sight under a wooden slatted crate. I sighed and began to move noiselessly along the wall, straining to see amid the swinging lights where Smith could have concealed himself.

A large clap of thunder nearly shook the whole ship, and I could hear waves smacking the side of the boat through the wall next to me. The lamps were still swinging, making it difficult to see.

"Shouldn't we split up, Holmes," Watson whispered almost noiselessly – even I had trouble hearing him, "we can catch him in between us that way."

"Too risky," I returned almost inaudibly, "I won't chance it."

"But we will never find him otherwise."

"No. So we shall allow him to find us," I replied, making a sudden decision. We did not have all night to play this hiding game.

"What?"

"We will get ourselves in the middle of the room and he will be sure to try something."

"Holmes, you are mad – he'll kill us!"

"I doubt that he is armed other than those germs," I said sensibly, "and otherwise we could play this cat and mouse game indefinitely."

"I would much rather be alive and playing the game!"

"Then stay here." 

I turned, slinking around several large crates, heading for the middle of the room.

"Oh, don't even start, Holmes," I heard a mutter behind me as Watson caught up with me, as I knew he would. Despite the gravity of the situation, I grinned at his unquestioning loyalty.

When we had reached the middle of the room, I looked round, still seeing and hearing nothing. And I spoke, not trying any longer to keep my voice low, knowing that Smith would hear it.

"All right, Watson, we shall split up now," I said in a normal tone of voice, shaking my head contradictorily at him all the while. He nodded in understanding.

"Right."

"You take the left side, and I shall go this way – and be careful!"

I ducked behind a stack of crates, pulling Watson with me, and we both stood listening for a moment. Nothing. Smith had not taken the bait, not yet anyway.

Then I began to work my way warily round the boxes at the right side of the cargo area, carefully watchful for any sign of Smith. I could hear Watson's rapid breathing behind me as he continued to shiver slightly, and I prayed Smith could not hear it and deduce where we were.

Suddenly I heard a creaking noise and I looked round hastily but saw nothing.

"Look out!" 

I heard Watson's voice ring out just as something slammed into me in a flying tackle, knocking me to the ground. I was dimly conscious of a heavy weight upon me blocking out the light and shielding me from what sounded like an avalanche made up of valises and luggage that rained down upon us for a good thirty seconds. I winced as a large box slammed into my leg.

When the stars I had been seeing as my head hit the floor finally faded and the weight that had been shielding my body from injury had scrambled off me, I found myself looking into a pair of very worried hazel eyes.

"Are you all right? I had no time to do anything but tackle you!"

I sat up, rubbing my head and staring at the pile of luggage that had fallen round us.

"Never mind about me, you idiot – did you get hit with anything?" I demanded.

Watson's face creased in a grin at my less-than-flattering term for his ridiculous heroism. 

"Not badly, just that one large portmanteau nearly took our heads off – hit my left side instead," he returned matter-of-factly, scrambling worriedly round the pile of suitcases and boxes, "but I lost my revolver in the process."

I suddenly stiffened as I heard the cargo door slam shut again. 

Swearing, I jumped to my feet and darted for the door – it was locked! From the outside!

I cursed and shouted to Watson.

"He got out while we were picking ourselves up – where is that gun?"

"Got it," he called, scrambling up and running for the door, aiming at the lock. "Stand clear, Holmes!"

The lock burst open with the bullet's impact and I flung the door wide, dashing out into the hallway. There was no sign of Smith.

I darted back to the companionway.

"Lachlan! Anyone come up that way?" I bellowed before we had even got there.

"No, Mr. Holmes! What –"

But Watson behind me had already taken off in the other direction and I followed within the instant. The passage was long and narrow, and there appeared to be no other doors into which he could have gone. We passed a sailor or two who stared at us in amazement but kept running, hoping to catch up with Smith.

Suddenly I saw a companionway up ahead and a pair of legs disappearing up it. I put on a burst of speed and followed. Watson was moving more slowly behind me, and I dearly hoped that portmanteau had not hurt him badly.

I climbed to the top and found that we were on the second class deck, near the spot where Watson had gone overboard. The rain was still pouring down in sheets and the wind was immense. I glimpsed Smith dashing down the deck – he was no doubt trying to lose the both of us and take refuge somewhere.

I could not let him out of my sight. I sprinted after him, watching as he threw a glimpse over his shoulder and saw me approaching. Then I truly recognized him – yes, it was definitely he. He had grown a thin mustache and had gained a bit of weight, but it was he without doubt.

More than that I was not able to observe, what with the rain and the rapidity with which he was moving. In a matter of seconds he had made it to the main staircase and was darting past startled passengers who were attempting to get to the lounges to shield themselves from being caught in the storm.

I weaved my way through the crowd, glancing behind me to see that Watson had fallen behind but was still keeping me in sight as I chased after Smith.

I knocked down a young man on the stairs and had no time to apologise, continuing my pursuit of the man – I could not let him get away from us!

Smith headed down a corridor past several deserted lounges and then in the distance I saw him disappear round a corner. He was easy to spot, for no one was in this part of the ship because of its proximity to the third-class deck and the rain. 

The corridor was deserted, and I turned the corner to see him disappear around an even darker one – the gas lamps had been extinguished by a high wave. My instincts screamed a warning but as usual I did not heed them and merely chased right after Smith.

I turned the shadowed corridor, hearing the wind howling about me, and more warily made my way down the dark hallway…

And suddenly something hit me in the back of the head with enough force to send me sprawling to the wet deck.

I had passed a darkened alcove and not seen Smith standing there holding a chair from a nearby lounge.

I instinctively rolled to the side to avoid a second blow, but it never fell. I shook my head desperately, trying to clear my vision, and I heard an all-too-familiar voice that was yet able to inspire me with dread as it had four years ago.

"Not the most brilliant move in the world, Mr. Holmes."

Finally my vision cleared and I was about to get up when I froze and swallowed hard. Smith was crouching beside me on the deck, holding a syringe in his hand far closer to my neck than I should have liked.

"You see I have discovered you at last, Smith," I said coolly, "you should choose your hired thugs with more care next time."

"Perhaps," the man said, his malevolent eyes boring into mine as he eyed my reaction to the nearness of the syringe with unmitigated glee, "but actually I was not planning on there being a next time. Not for you, Holmes. I've waited a long time to be able to do this, and –"

"Move one muscle, Smith, and I shall put a bullet through your brain!"

I could have shouted with relief at the clear hard voice ringing behind Smith in the shadowed corridor. My dear Watson, on time as always.

"Stand up, slowly. That's it. Now step backwards. More. And drop that syringe. No, don't even try it – I can snap off a shot far before you would have the time to turn round."

The small syringe dropped onto the decking as well as one more that Watson located in searching Smith's pockets, and I scrambled for them, carefully picking the ghastly items up. Dashing a short ways down to the end of the corridor, I tossed them into the churning sea.

And cursed myself for doing so when I heard a shout from where I had left the two of them, albeit only for a moment. I sprinted back down the corridor and saw Watson picking himself up slowly from the deck, alone.

"What happened?" I demanded, hauling him to his feet.

"You didn't tell me – he knew how to box!" he gasped, holding his side gingerly, and I could also see a bruise forming along his jaw line under his ear, "it happened too fast, and he hit the same spot that trunk did earlier!"

"Are you hurt badly?"

"No – go after him! The way we came – heading for the main staircase," he returned, shoving me in that direction. 

At his nod I took off once again after Smith, this time being slightly more wary. And I spotted him in front of me again, brushing past a few passengers and jumping upon the staircase once again. I moaned inwardly as my breath became slightly laboured – I was out of condition from my Hiatus, evidently.

Smith looked back and saw me when he was halfway up the stairs and scowled, doubling his speed. He reached the promenade deck and hopped off, skirting round a crowd of half-drunk people exiting a lounge fighting against the rain, that I too had to avoid when I got there a moment later. 

Smith glanced once again over his shoulder at the pursuit, and then with a wicked smirk he disappeared through a set of double doors. I halted at the entrance with a moan.

A moment later, a very breathless Watson reached me, rubbing absently at his bruised side.

"Oh, no, he didn't!"

"I am afraid so," I sighed.

"The dining area? How are we supposed to get him out of there?" Watson asked, pocketing his revolver and turning his collar up against the rain that was still lashing about, although the worst of the storm seemed to have passed over now.

"I have no idea at the moment," I said with a growl. "Watson, are you sure you are all right?"

"Oh, yes, quite. Just took me by surprise," he said reassuringly. 

I glanced at his eyes, for it was only there that I could learn the truth – but apparently he was indeed not badly hurt by the affair.

I breathed a sigh of relief and peeked into the dining area. Smith was complacently sitting at a small two-person table along a wall toward the middle of the room. The whole lavish and brightly-lit hall was packed with people, due to the storm – anyone who had not been within walking distance of their staterooms had ended up in there.

"Oh, good grief. There are probably over two hundred people in there!"

"And all of them innocent," Watson said quietly.

I frowned.

"Watson, can you find your way back to Lachlan from here?"

"I believe so. Want me to fetch him?"

"Yes. I shall wait here and keep an eye on Smith."

"I do not like leaving you alone," he said worriedly.

"Smith is inside, Watson. I shan't go in until you return," I said firmly.

"Take the gun at least."

"No, you are going to be walking about a dark ship. I shall be fine. Now hurry, man!"

I heard a muttered growl about stubbornness that made me laugh as he made his way down the staircase toward the companionway where we had unceremoniously left the seaman. Then my mind began to revolve slowly, trying to think of how we were going to empty the place or else flush the prey out into the open where no one would get hurt.

In about five minutes Watson had returned with Lachlan, and I quickly brought the sailor up to date on what had happened.

_**Watson**_

We rushed up to Holmes, who was still looking at Smith in the dining area, and my friend rapidly explained the matter to the seaman.

I took the opportunity to lean against the wall and close my eyes for a moment, for I was winded from the chase and my side was throbbing rather where I knew a nasty bruise must be forming from that trunk and Smith's well-placed blow.

"That's a nasty bit of a problem. How are we going to apprehend the man if he's in the middle of a couple hundred innocent people?" Lachlan asked, glancing over Holmes's shoulder into the crowded dining area.

The detective sighed, his eyes never leaving Smith, who was still smugly sipping his drink with one eye on the doors.

"It certainly is going to be a problem," said he, narrowing his gaze in concentration.

"We cannot take him, there in the middle of all those people – I can't risk a shot," I spoke up worriedly.

"No, certainly not. And there is no way we could empty out that many people."

"Not to mention anything you might think of to accomplish that end would probably cause the captain to throw us _all_ into the brig," Lachlan added with a smirk.

"No more smoke rockets, Holmes."

"This is not time for humour, Watson!"

"Then think of something!" I hissed, looking over his shoulder at the crowd inside.

"I am trying!" he replied with a tense frown, his mind obviously working feverishly.

"What is he thinking?" I asked, staring incredulously at Smith – I saw that he had now ordered a meal and was attacking his food as if he had not a care in the world.

"The bloke has to ship out sometime," Lachlan muttered, "he's only delaying the inevitable!"

Suddenly a thought hit me, and I gasped.

"You don't suppose he is going to kill himself?"

"I would not be at all surprised," Holmes said, his brow furrowing. Then I saw his eyes light up suddenly with a plan and a look of triumph, and he turned to me.

"That's it, Watson! Wait here."

"Holmes!"

He completely ignored my protests and took off at a run in the direction of our staterooms.

"What is he doing?" Lachlan asked in amazement.

"Putting a plan into action, I would assume," I returned wearily, leaning back against the wall.

"You all right, Doctor?"

"Quite. Just tired."

"I should have made you eat something other than that soup."

"Your fussing is as bad as Mrs. Hudson's, Lachlan!" I said in amusement.

The seaman chuckled and made some reply that I didn't hear, for I could see Holmes returning at a dead run, dashing up to us and shaking the rain from his hair. I was very glad the storm had nearly stopped, and I was even more thrilled that I had not succumbed to seasickness during it.

"Watson."

"What do you want me to do?" I asked tiredly, knowing he was not going to tell me what he had planned.

"Cover me."

"You are _not_ going in there alone!"

"Yes, I am. Now listen."

"I will not!" I exclaimed, "you cannot do this!"

"Watson, the man is not a menace – you searched him and he has no more germs on him," he said patiently, as if dealing with a small child.

"That doesn't mean –"

"Watson, will you please trust me?" he pleaded.

"I always have," I sighed.

"I know."

"But I think you are being unduly foolish!"

"We have not the time to argue, Watson. Now watch us closely. If all goes well, I will need you both to help me get Smith out without starting a panic with the passengers," he said.

"Help you get him out?"

Holmes rummaged through a pocket and produced a syringe he must have taken from my medical bag.

"You should not carry round such a large dose of barbiturates in your case, Watson."

"You can't get close enough to him to inject him with that!" I said in dismay.

"I have no intention of getting that close to him."

"Holmes, stop being such an infuriating devil!" Lachlan expostulated finally, having kept silent throughout this, "what the deuce are you trying to say, you aren't going to inject him with a knockout?"

"I am not. He will do it for me."

"He'll take the sedative himself," the sailor repeated blankly.

"Of course. Watson, if something goes wrong, you shall have to take over."

"Something had better _not_ go wrong," I said pointedly, my voice a trifle unsteady, "or I shall kill you myself before Smith gets a chance to!"

Holmes laughed, clapping me on the shoulder affectionately, and then he turned and entered the dining area without another word.

I tried desperately to choke down the lump of fear that had arisen in my throat at the thought of what he might be planning. I prayed that I had taken all of Smith's weapons from him in the hasty search I had made of his person earlier.

If I had not, Holmes would be in deadly danger, for the man's plan had been destroyed and his sole purpose in life now would be to take Holmes with him when he went down.


	30. Striking the Flag

Chapter 30:"Striking the Flag"

Striking the Flag - Striking the ensign was and is the universally recognized indication of surrender.

_**Holmes**_

Leaving Watson and Lachlan near the doorway, I entered the dining area and was accosted by the white-coated headwaiter.

"How many in your party, sir?"

"Actually, my party is already here," I replied, indicating Smith's empty seat at his table, "I shall just go and join him. Coffee, one sugar, if you please?"

I walked calmly up to Smith's table and seated myself. The man himself looked up briefly from his trout and smiled sardonically.

"Most people ask before taking a seat, Holmes."

"You know me well enough to know that I am _not_ your average Englishman, Smith."

"Touché. You don't mind if I finish this?"

"Not at all," I said, lighting up a cigarette and sitting back in my chair. 

I fingered the syringe in my pocket just a shade nervously, but I knew that my unease would not be visible to Smith. I was an incomparable actor, and I brought all my skills into play now.

Smith finished his meal and the waiter cleared his dishes when he brought me my coffee. Smith settled back to face me with a quizzical look.

"Well, Holmes. You have nerve, I will say that for you."

"As do you, Smith," I replied, "steady as always in the face of ruin."

Smith's face flushed dangerously.

"I am not sure yet that it is ruin, Holmes," he replied, looking at me piercingly with those eyes that gleamed with a slightly maniacal hatred.

"Really? I tossed your cultures and germs overboard, Smith," I said carelessly, "and you have nothing left."

Smith flashed me a wicked smile that I thought was rather overdone.

"You have no idea what I still have in store for you, Holmes," he told me with an eerie satisfaction that made me want to squirm with unease, "I guarantee you I have one surprise yet for you, you shall see."

"You know you haven't a chance, Smith?"

"Of evading capture? Yes, I know."

"Your plans have been ruined and you have nothing left – you cannot get away now."

"I was aware of that," the man replied calmly.

"What are you proposing to do with yourself then?"

"I am not going to stand trial and go to prison yet again, Holmes – especially not by your hand," the man said, his eyes gleaming dangerously.

"I hardly suspected you would."

"You are a strange man, Holmes. Sitting here calmly as you please, chatting with me over a cup of coffee, as if nothing were endangering you."

"Nothing is, Smith, is it?" I asked, eyeing him.

"Other than the fact that I have a gun trained on you under the table, you mean?" he asked calmly – and then I noticed that he indeed did have one hand under the table.

"You are not good at bluffing, Smith. Watson searched you."

"Not very thoroughly. This was hidden in an inside coat pocket. Very small but quite effective. I promise you, Holmes – if I have to go down in defeat, I am most definitely going to take you with me."

Smith just barely raised the weapon above the lip of the table to show me he was not bluffing, and I swallowed hard, knowing the next ten minutes were going to be rather tricky.

_**Watson**_

"Blast the son of a gun anyhow, what is he thinking!" Lachlan exclaimed, shifting his weight nervously to the other foot.

"He rarely thinks of ought else but the case when he is on it, Lachlan," I replied, resting my head on the side of the doorjamb as I watched the interview with growing trepidation.

"Well he should!"

"I have been telling him that for years, Lachlan. Arguing with Holmes is like telling the wind to stop in a thunderstorm. It does no good whatsoever," I said with a faint smile.

Lachlan swore a blue streak as Smith leaned forward to say something to Holmes, leering at him with a wicked smile.

"I sure hope he knows what he's doing, Doctor!"

"So do I, Lachlan. So do I."

_**Holmes**_

"You are more resourceful than I had thought, Smith. I am rather impressed."

"Thank you. And I might return the compliment to you, Holmes. I was rather dismayed to find out that you had somehow stumbled upon my schemes. I am rather interested to hear why you are not lying at the bottom of the Reichenbach Falls, by the by."

"It is rather a long story," I replied calmly, my mind jumping around nervously, knowing that only my quick thinking and even quicker talking would save my own skin in this matter – I had not counted upon the man having a revolver. 

I did not blame Watson in the least for not finding it – he had not had the time to make a thorough search; that should have been my first priority upon reaching my feet. I was in a trap of my own making and no one else's – and only I could get out of it now.

"I should like to hear it before I have to remove you from the scene, Holmes. I suppose I should be glad to go down in history as succeeding where Professor Moriarty evidently failed," the man said, his eyes gleaming with amusement.

"Your only motive in all this was to go down in history, was it not?"

"You are smarter than I thought, Holmes. Yes, indeed. Fame is a rather powerful motive, you know?"

"We all have been guilty of the desire at some point," I replied, remembering my own words at the beginning of my career. _I have it in me to make my name famous._

I shifted in my chair.

"Don't do that, if you please, Holmes. I should not like to have to shoot you before our conversation is concluded," the man said calmly, inspecting his nails with an infuriating nonchalance.

"Are you intending to shoot me and then yourself, Smith?"

"Precisely. I have no desire to stand trial and be hung for what England will call murder of those unfortunate souls on those vessels. British law does not allow for scientific research, does it?"

"When that research involves human lives, no!" I spat, not able to disguise my contempt for the madman.

"But surely in the interests of scientific advancement it would be worth losing a few to gain control over the mysteries of eastern disease? The world would be ringing with my name!" Smith said, his eyes taking on a gleam of maniacal excitement.

"Fame and fortune, recognition, membership in all the medical societies – you killed entire ships full of people for that?" 

"You act as if it were some paltry triumph, Holmes. Do you understand what that would mean? The fame, the acclaim, the world bowing at my feet and worshipping me as a hero, the man who had found the cure for these dread diseases?"

I slowly had gotten my hand into my pocket and clenched it around the syringe.

"You murdered hundreds of people over recognition."

"I was not murder, Holmes – merely necessary expenditure to aid me in my plans."

I was having difficulty even with my intense self-control to refrain from showing the nausea I felt at this man's careless statement of his murderous schemes. The man filled me with revulsion, and I could hide the fact no longer.

"Ah, you can show feeling, Holmes. You are disgusted with me, I can see," Smith said coolly, sipping his coffee.

"Disgust is hardly the word I would have chosen," I said in a low voice, my loathing filling it with contempt.

"I can give you just ten more minutes of converse, Holmes. Then I am afraid I shall end this conversation," the man replied, leaning back and motioning for me to continue.

His calm, matter-of-fact attitude about facing his own suicide was merely another indication of how deranged he really was.

Could my intense logic even get through that insanity to carry out my plan?

_**Watson**_

I felt perspiration rolling down my neck as I watched Holmes with growing nervousness. I could see that Smith had one hand under the table and wondered if he held a weapon I had missed when I searched him. I prayed not, because at that range in that many people, Holmes would have no chance to defend himself.

"How long has he been in there, Doctor?"

"Quarter of an hour," I said in a low voice, my eyes never leaving the two men.

_Holmes, for heaven's sake be careful!_

_**Holmes**_

"You seem rather calm about ending your existence, Smith," I offered.

"And you seem equally calm about the fact that you will end yours just seconds before mine."

"Touché. But has it occurred to you, Smith, that there is a chance you might not be able to shoot yourself before someone prevents you? And then where will you be?" I asked, my hand clenching round the syringe in my pocket once again.

"No one will be able to stop me in time, Holmes."

"You do not know that. And you do not strike me as the gambling type, Smith."

"What are you driving at, Holmes? No, do not make any sudden moves!"

"I have no weapon," I said, very slowly drawing the syringe from my pocket and placing it on the table.

"I did not destroy all of your cultures, Smith. I saved one," I said slowly, trying to use the inexorable power in my eyes to make it through that haze of insanity surrounding the man's demented brain.

"And?"

"Well. Are you willing to chance getting away with killing yourself, or would you like to make it a certainty?" I asked slowly and calmly, watching for any flash of recognition in his clouded eyes.

_**Watson**_

I took a long breath, wiping my forehead free of perspiration, absently noticing that the rain and wind had stopped and my clothes were very gradually starting to dry.

"He's been in there for almost a half-hour," Lachlan whispered nervously.

"I know it."

"Try not to worry, Doctor – he knows what he is doing."

"He always does. And that is what frightens me so," I returned, rubbing my temples wearily.

_**Holmes**_

Smith looked from the syringe back to me and smiled mirthlessly.

"You are offering to help me in killing myself, Holmes? Why?"

"I am a dead man anyway," I replied, my brain thinking faster than I ever had before in my life, "and I want to ensure that I do not enter the veil alone, Smith. If I die, I most certainly want you to follow me."

That made a kind of odd sense, and evidently it registered with Smith's dementia in a kind of poetic justice. But he still looked skeptical.

"Besides, to be honest, Smith, I really do not want you loose to finish your revenge on Watson," I added.

A small gleam came back into his eyes.

"I want you dead as much as you do – more so, Smith," I said. That part at least was no bluff.

"Hmm."

"I have Watson and Lachlan watching us, Smith."

"I was aware of that."

"The instant they see me keel over they will be in here. And I guarantee Watson will be vindictive enough to want you to stand trial and hang. He won't allow you to kill yourself."

"I will be too fast for anyone to stop me."

"Perhaps. But there is still a chance, Smith. And you've never been one to deal in chances," I replied firmly, hoping desperately that the man would take the bluff – I was lost if he did not.

_**Watson**_

"You all right, Doctor?"

I nodded wordlessly, mopping my brow as the conversation showed no signs of letting up.

"Does he often indulge in this?"

"Beg pardon?"

"These theatrical performances?"

"I do not have grey hairs at my age for nothing," I attempted to joke weakly.

Lachlan chuckled.

"He's like a precocious child – and you're the worried parent."

"I wish I were sometimes, for then I could give him a sound thrashing!" I said vehemently, watching as Smith moved his hand under the table. 

"Why does Smith only have one hand above the table?" Lachlan asked worriedly.

"I am afraid he has a gun under the table," I replied, watching the two men carefully, fingering the revolver in my pocket with growing nervousness, swallowing down the rising lump of cold fear in my heart.

"The devil."

"Quite."

"I certainly hope Holmes can pull this off, Doctor."

"You are not the only one," I whispered, my gaze never leaving the drama unfolding in front of us.

_**Holmes**_

"Think about it, Smith – you have always dealt in certainties, not chances."

Smith was regarding me carefully, and I swallowed down my nervousness, pulling all my acting and bluffing skills to the fore to convince him through that mania swirling round his formidable mind.

"I am suspicious of your motives, Holmes."

"I told you, Smith – I want to see you dead even more than you do!" I spat, genuine revulsion coloring my words more convincingly than I ever could have otherwise.

Smith regarded me for a long moment, glancing at the syringe on the table.

Then a thought hit me – the dosage would put him out within less than a minute, so heavy had I made it. But what would he do when he realized he had been tricked? That gun was still pointed at me under the table?

I had not thought through this as carefully as I should have. I gulped down a knot of nervousness as Smith picked up the syringe with his free hand and smiled.

"Actually, I believe for once we might agree on something, Holmes. You do know of course that you only have a few moments to live now?"

"As long as I can take you with me to the grave, Smith, that is all I care about at this point."

"Oh, you definitely will. Pardon me for a moment."

I held me breath as Smith removed his cuff link and felt round for a vein like an expert – I had no doubt he had used a syringe even more times than had I, albeit upon other people.

The next sixty seconds would tell the tale.

_**Watson**_

"He's doing it!" I hissed, jerking back to full awareness as I saw Smith pick up the syringe, say something to Holmes, and then remove a cufflink.

"He got him to do it?" Lachlan asked incredulously.

"Look! He's got the thing in his hand – there, he did it!"

"I don't believe it!"

"He did it!" I gasped again, "he really managed to pull it off!"

I slumped against the wall in my relief. Holmes had come through; he had known what he was doing.

He always did.

_**Holmes**_

I held my breath as Smith administered the dosage to himself with a sardonic smile.

"You wouldn't happen to know which of my lovely little pathogens you put in here, Holmes?" he asked, depressing the plunger and glancing up at me.

"One of the ones that was in your pocket, Smith, when we encountered you earlier below decks," I said, limply leaning back in my chair – I had done it, Smith had taken the barbiturate.

"Ah. Then I have two or three days, if my attempt tonight is not successful. I shall follow you into the next life before we reach a port, Holmes," he said with a wicked glare.

I felt perspiration trickling down my collar. It had been fifteen seconds – forty-five to go.

I wondered exactly which side of the table that gun was – I was going to have to grab for it to prevent a widespread alarm.

If Smith did not shoot me first.

Ten more seconds went by. Thirty-five to go.

"Well, Holmes, I do believe we have reached an end to this conversation."

"It would appear so," I said, outwardly calm but inwardly frantically nervous.

Twenty-five more seconds.

Smith's hand under the table moved to the right side. If I did not get that gun from him, he either would shoot me or one of the passengers dining behind me, completely unaware of what was going on.

Twenty seconds.

"I am sorry to end this unusual battle of wits, Holmes – you really…really have been…a most entertaining opponent," Smith said, his eyes darkening and his speech slurring somewhat.

I eyed the hand at the side of the table nervously.

Fifteen seconds.

Suddenly Smith sat bolt upright, his darkening eyes flashing with sudden comprehension.

"That was not…one of my diseases!" he gasped, fixing me with a malevolent glare that would have made a lesser man cower in fear.

"No, it was not," I replied coolly, eyeing the twitching hand half-hidden under the table.

Ten seconds.

Smith let loose with a string of filthy expletives that might have made Lachlan blush and I knew I had to act, now.

In the matter of three seconds I had slammed my chair backward, pulling the table with me to the floor and using it for a shield just as the gun went off. The bullet imbedded itself into the wood with a thud that I barely heard amidst the frightened screams from a few surrounding tables.

Then there was another thud as Smith collapsed limply on the pile of dishes with a resounding smash.

"All right, ladies and gentlemen – just a bit of trouble here, nothing to worry about," I heard a familiar midshipman's voice calling calmly over the small commotion. 

"Holmes – are you hurt?"

I looked up to see Watson's worried face as he extended a hand to me which I took gratefully.

"Not a scratch."

"Thank God – why did I not find that gun when I searched him earlier?" he said in a tone of deep guilt, staring down at Smith's motionless body with a shudder.

"It was not your fault, Watson, I promise you that. So do stop berating yourself over it," I replied reassuringly.

"I am truly sorry, Holmes."

"You had no way of knowing, old chap – and it's all over now," I said gently, relief colouring my words.

"It is, isn't it. Well done, my dear fellow – I am sorry for doubting you."

"Do not be. I doubted myself," I returned with a rueful smile which he returned at once, immense relief flooding over both of us.

Culverton Smith had been bested at long last, for good this time.


	31. Hidden Reefs

Chapter 31:"Hidden Reefs"

_**Watson**_

I breathed a huge sigh of relief as the now-unconscious Culverton Smith was taken away from the room by the sailors Lachlan had commandeered, to be placed in the brig under the custody of the Lieutenant we had encountered earlier.

I felt Holmes slowly untense beside me and knew that he had to be feeling nearly as limp as I was – indeed, I could not remember the last time I had felt so tired. This case had been one horrific turn of events after another, and we were both devoutly glad to have it over with at last. We drew comfort now from each other's presence and wellbeing, paying no heed to the whispers and looks we were drawing from the crowd.

We had done it - we had come through it alive and, though not unscathed, at least in one piece.

Lachlan finished with his calming of the disturbed crowds, who went back to eating with a disdain that was a sole characteristic of the upper classes, and turned at last to us looking as equally relieved.

"Well, Mr. Holmes," he said, "it seems that your 'pretty little problem' is finally over with. Are you satisfied?" 

Holmes laughed slightly. 

"It was far more interesting than I first believed it would be. Thank you Lachlan, not only for bringing it to my attention, but also for services rendered."

The seaman snorted and his blue eyes twinkled. 

"You make it sound like I did something grand…I am only a midshipman."

Holmes fixed him with a sharp and appraising glare, cutting short the seaman's flippancy. 

"We all know that you are more than a simple midshipman, Mr. Lachlan."

"A great deal more," I said, unable to keep a smile from my own face. 

Smith was in custody and his germs were in the sea, and with this knowledge came a sense of security that I had not possessed for more than two weeks. I felt nearly limp with the relief of it.

Lachlan returned my smile and clapped me on the back. 

"I think you'd better be changin' into some dry clothes, Doctor; we just can't seem to keep you dry tonight."

"And get your side looked at," Holmes said with a trace of worry in his eyes. 

I glared at him, not eager to be submitted to an examination by one of the ship's doctors. 

"There is no great damage done, Holmes. A few minor bruises…"

"Have you looked at it?"

"No, but I shall once I get to my cabin." said I.

"What happened?" Lachlan asked as we exited the now serene dining area.

"The fool tried to shield me from an avalanche of luggage in the cargo bay that Smith pushed over on us!"

"That _fool_ probably saved you from a fractured skull, Holmes," I replied dryly.

Lachlan laughed aloud at our childish bickering, leading the way through a curious crowd who had heard the commotion and saw Smith being dragged away from the dining area. Holmes and I followed in his wake and within minutes had reached our staterooms – 

Just as a familiar squalling started up once more.

"Oh, good heavens – not again!" Holmes moaned.

"I don't blame the poor thing," I replied, unlocking my stateroom door, "that sea was so rough earlier I thought I should be sick as well – I still feel a little off, actually."

Lachlan chuckled at Holmes's dismayed looks and offered to go and fetch us something hot to eat, for I at least had lost everything in my stomach from my experience in the sea earlier. 

"You can eat something now, Holmes – the case is over," I teased as I sat.

"Hmph."

"Do not make me force you to!"

"Oh, stop it. Yes, make it two, Lachlan, if you'd be so kind," my friend said, his grey eyes twinkling with the merriment that always accompanied the successful closure of a case.

The seaman grinned and nodded as he shut the door behind him.

"Now, Watson – let me look at that side."

"How is your head, by the way?" I asked as I gingerly began to unbutton my shirt.

Holmes grimaced but showed no other signs of pain, as was usual for his stalwart nature.

"Just a bruise, no lump," he assured me. I gave him a pointed look that told him I disbelieved him, and he merely grinned at me.

The bruise on my side appeared to be only superficial, to his relief and mine. I rubbed some liniment on the painful areas and then inspected the back of Holmes's head.

"Ouch! Stop that!"

"Hold still, Holmes."

"Watson! Where the devil did you get your medical degree, correspondence school? OUCH!"

"At least I _have_ a college degree, Holmes," I retorted, probing the sore area, "and you told me there was no lump."

"Well?"

"Well there's a good-sized one!"

"I thought that was just my head."

"You are an idiot," I said fondly, digging through my medical bag for a pain reliever that would not make him drowsy.

"I? The world's most famous consulting detective? An idiot?"

"Oh, honestly. My stories were what made you famous, anyhow."

"They were not!"

"They certainly were. Admit it – your business doubled after I published _The Sign of the Four_," I said mischievously, snapping the bag shut.

"Poppycock."

I laughed and began to change out of my still slightly damp shirt and collar, feeling much the better once in dry clothes for the second time that night. Then I flopped down tiredly on the bunk and closed my eyes, reveling in the softness of the pillow – tonight would be the first night we could sleep without dread of Smith and his machinations.

Holmes glanced out of the porthole.

"Storm's stopped for now, but it still looks rather like a cloudburst is still hanging about us," he remarked.

I moaned at the thought – it was only a Providential miracle I had escaped seasickness tonight; if the storm kicked up again I would likely be in the same predicament as poor Helen by sunrise.

"Getting sick, are you?"

"Not yet," I muttered, glancing up at him – he was trying desperately not to smile at my dismay. "I hope you get desperately ill on the return voyage, Holmes, do you can know what it feels like for once!"

He chortled and pulled a chair up beside the bed, pulling his pipe out of a soggy pocket.

"I really am sorry, old chap," he said.

I snorted. "You have rather an odd way of showing it – laughing at a fellow when he's miserable."

"You are not even sick yet!"

"No, but if I were you would still laugh."

"I would not!" he replied indignantly, trying to get a damp match to light unsuccessfully.

I rolled onto my elbow and grinned at him.

"You really have terrible people skills, Holmes."

His eyes grew large over the bowl of the pipe as he tried another match, this time with more success.

"I?"

"Yes, you. You would make a perfectly terrible doctor. You would probably laugh when a patient came down with pneumonia or something."

"I would not!"

"Mmhm."

"You are horrid, Watson," he scowled petulantly, sitting back in his chair and glaring at me.

It was my turn to laugh now, and I was still chuckling as Lachlan came back into the room with a large tray of foodstuffs. The tempting smells made my empty stomach growl, and I sat up eagerly and came to the table. Holmes and Lachlan joined me, and for a few minutes nothing was said as we made short work of the meal.

"Lachlan, the captain said we have to take Smith off at the next port – that will be in just a few days," Holmes said, chewing thoughtfully, "but you are still under contract to the ship, are you not?"

"Aye, Mr. Holmes. So I suppose I shall just have to say _au revoir_ until I reach port again in London," the seaman said, watching us eat with approval.

"Be sure to look us up the instant you get back," I said, taking another bite.

The food was delicious, and I had been half-starved it seemed, but now that I started in on it I grew full very rapidly, only half-finishing the meal.

"Not seasick, are you Doctor?" Lachlan asked, eyeing the half-finished plate.

"I do wish no one knew of that weakness; that is all I've heard about ever since the storm started up," I growled, pushing my chair back from the table.

"He is always a little testy after the culmination of a case, Lachlan, don't mind him," I heard Holmes lean over and whisper in a confidential tone.

"I heard that, Holmes!"

"Well?"

"At least I do not sit around depressed for days upon end and moan and complain about the criminal being locked up and now there is nothing to fasten my mind upon," I said pointedly, stretching out again on the bunk, propped up on my elbows to look at my two friends.

"I do not complain!"

"You do so. You complained for two hours straight before this case came along about how much you missed Professor Moriarty and Colonel Moran. You've got to stop this complaining, Holmes – I want no more villains from our past getting resurrected and coming back to haunt us!"

Holmes laughed.

"No, no. After Smith, I do believe no more would be possible. No ghosts need apply to this agency, Watson."

"Do you believe in ghosts, Doctor?" Lachlan asked with interest.

I opened my mouth to reply as Holmes snorted and muttered something about lurid romanticism, stuffing his pipe with more tobacco and leaning back with a bored expression.

Lachlan was informing me of some fascinating sea legends about ghostly ships and figureheads coming to life in the dead of night, etc., etc., when Holmes finally could stand no more of it.

"Honestly, Lachlan, you're as bad as Watson. You should become a writer too," he said derisively, glaring at the both of us.

"You should, Lachlan," I replied seriously.

Holmes moaned and collapsed back into his chair.

"I give up," he informed no one in particular.

I laughed as Lachlan rose, saying he had to be 'gettin' along back before the cap'n sent that pompous Lieutenant after him'.

"I'll check in on you tomorrow – now get some sleep, the both of you. I daresay you've more than earned it," the man added with a smile, "Oh, and Mr. Holmes, the captain has taken that trunk full of antidotes and given them to the ship's doctors. They are working steadily now to dole them out to the poor souls who've been infected by that devil."

"Dear heaven, I'd completely forgotten!" I cried with a pang of remorse.

"Have no fear, Doctor. Within the night all those who are ill now should be on their way to recovery. Now you just worry 'bout you. Get some rest, both of you – g'nite gents," Lachlan said, shutting the door with a smile.

"He is as bad as Mrs. Hudson with that infernal fussing," Holmes muttered.

I chuckled softly and leaned back, feeling the reaction of relief washing over me like a wave, making me almost unusually drowsy.

"Watson?"

"Mmm?"

"Game for a fencing rematch?"

"Mmm? What? Right now?"

"No, no," he laughed, "tomorrow. If the storm lets up, that is."

I sighed and opened one eye to look at him.

"I suppose."

I was rewarded with a flash of an excited smile.

"Excellent! I shall have to give you some lessons in the more advanced moves before we land in port."

"I am simply thrilling with excitement, Holmes."

"Are you being sarcastic, Watson?"

"Use your powers of deduction, my dear fellow," I murmured, closing my eyes again.

I heard an undignified snort.

"Your sense of sarcasm seems to have returned with the removal of Smith from the scene."

"It usually is rather hard to possess humour when you know that somewhere out there a mad scientist lurks, ready to inject you with a deadly disease the moment your back is turned."

"Dear me, such lurid description! Sounds like one of your stories!"

"Can you not manage to work my writing into every single conversation we have, Holmes?"

"I don't."

"You do."

"I do not!"

I sighed wearily, burying my face in the pillow's beckoning softness.

"Watson?"

"What."

"Are you going to sleep on me?"

"Holmes, it is almost midnight and I nearly drowned earlier in the evening – that takes a good deal of strength out of a man," I said dryly. "Besides, I spent a half-hour outside that dining hall watching you and feeling my hair turn grey even as I stood there. That is _also_ rather tiring."

"I am sorry, Watson," I heard him say, and I opened one eye to see him fidgeting uncomfortably, "I did not mean to worry you like that."

"I will always worry about you, my dear fellow, so nothing you can do will ever stop it," I sighed, closing my eyes again.

_**Holmes**_

That last statement was uttered in a tone of simple fact, and it touched me deeply although I would never in a hundred years admit it to a soul.

Watson really did look absolutely done in, and so when I saw that he was nearly asleep right there in the midst of our conversation, I turned the gas down and asked him if he needed anything. He made some incoherent reply, already nearly unconscious, and I had not the heart to waken him fully – it would do no harm for him to sleep in his clothes.

I turned down the gas and left the room without a sound, glancing back to see him curled up upon the bunk, sound asleep and snoring softly.

I sighed and closed the door firmly, feeling the need to make certain that Watson was safe and secure as he slept. He really did need the rest, and I would be very happy to get back to the familiar streets of London again. We had both come far too close to losing our lives in this case and I longed for the safety and assurance of Baker Street, for the familiar sights and sounds and smells; perhaps this was one thing that I had in common with Mycroft.

I turned tiredly towards my own cabin, suddenly aware of my own exhaustion and growing lethargy. Perhaps in reaction to the case, without the threat of Smith or the promise of intellectual challenge I was going limp. 

Watson had the right idea – a night of uninterrupted rest would set me to rights.

I entered the cabin, sat on my bunk, and flinched as the baby Helen fell into another bout of screeching. 

Yes, I would be very grateful indeed to return to Baker Street.

Thankfully the fit did not last long and by the time I had finished pulling off my jacket, waistcoat, shoes, and cravat, all was silent again. 

I allowed myself to collapse onto the soft mattress, my mind falling into a blissful state of unconsciousness.

When next I awoke it was to a room not much different from the room I had fallen asleep in. The moon had broken through the cloud cover and its silver rays streamed in through the porthole illuminating everything with a ghostly light, which was interspersed with the waving patterns of the water as it reflected off the walls. 

I blinked about me, shaking off the last vestiges of what had been a comfortable if light sleep.

What had woken me?

A sudden light rapping on the door drew my attention…although it was far too slow and soft to be considered a knock. 

I sat up, rubbing a hand over my face and called out in a voice slurred with sleep. 

"Come in."

The door creaked open and I made out a familiar figure standing in the doorway, one hand on the knob and another on the frame as he entered.

His gait was clumsy and halting as though he himself had only just been woken from sleep, which was plausible as Watson was a heavy sleeper and always disoriented when he was forcibly awoken.

I sighed and kneaded my eyes for a moment, still trying to adjust to the brighter light.

"Watson, old chap. What is it?"

"Holmes," his voice was very soft, more a whisper than anything else, but it sounded far clearer than it should have been at that time of night.

In fact it rang with an unusual amount of clarity.

I sat up straighter, pushing back the covers, genuine concern creeping into my mind. 

Something must have happened. Perhaps Smith had caused trouble…but no…they would not have alerted Watson on that count. And if there was something wrong with the ship in general where was Lachlan?

"What is it, Watson?" I asked again, trying to make out more of my friend for he stood not in the light from the porthole but in the shadow from the door. 

He took another step into the room and my concern heightened when he stumbled slightly. 

"Holmes, I…"

I swung my feet over side of the bunk and stood, quickly making my way to his side. 

"Are you seasick, old fellow?"

"I don't…I don't know."

He said this in a shaky voice as I took hold of his arm.

He pulled away from my touch, but not before I felt that how very shaky he really was. 

I took a firmer hold on his arm so that he could not pull away and confirmed my assumption. Watson was not only shaky…he was trembling.

Recalling to mind the night when I had told him of one of my cases to help him overcome his nightmares I concluded this might be a similar episode. And that like some child going to a parent in the dark watches of the night, he had come to reassure himself of my wellbeing, to comfort himself with a quick peek into my room. 

He would no doubt be embarrassed at being found out. 

Was that all it was, some terrible nightmare? Was he afraid?

I pulled him forward out of the shadow of the door; he stumbled again, and my alarm grew.

No…that could not be it, he was trembling too badly for that, and Watson had far greater control of his nerves than a lot of men.

My suspicions were confirmed at the sight of his pale face and limp posture, his somewhat dazed expression. It seemed that he was suffering from a delayed bout of seasickness, and perhaps his dunking from earlier. A terrible thing to happen just at the end of a case. 

There went our fencing match for tomorrow.

I smiled reassuringly at him and led him to the bunk, pushing him down to sit onto it. 

"I am sorry, old fellow, rest here for a moment and I'll get you a drink of water, shall I?"

He nodded heavily, his head bent, his eyes fixed on the floor in front of him, his hands gripping the frame of the bunk.

I went to the sink and got him a glass. Returning, I held it out for him.

He reached up with a shaky hand to take it and I moved to place it in his fingers. He took hold, raised it to his lips and took a rather noisy sip, almost choking in his haste to swallow. 

I placed a bracing hand on his shoulder. 

"Slowly, old fellow. It's not going to run away from you."

Watson gasped in a bit of air and coughed slightly. "I know - its just…I'm very thirsty."

"I'll have to take your word for it. I've never been seasick myself."

He nodded again, rather listlessly, and coughed once more before raising the glass to his lips. 

The trembling had not abated and before I could move to catch it the glass slipped from friend's fingers to the floor.

Watson coughed again, lowering his head in a shamefaced fashion. "I'm sorry, Holmes."

But I was not listening, I was watching my friend with a far more alert and critical eye. 

Something was not right…I had seen him seasick before.

"Watson, look at me."

He shivered, coughed again.

"Watson!"

The urgency in my tone got his attention and he jerked his head up to look at me. 

I took in the alarming pallor of his face, the brightness of his eyes.

With a wave of apprehension I laid my hand on his forehead, and cursed roundly at what I discovered there.

Watson was warm, not alarmingly so but enough that even I could tell it was a growing fever, and beads of cool sweat stood out against his skin.

He coughed again, looking at me, his eyes questioning.

"Holmes?"

I swallowed the sudden bile that rose in my throat and tried my best to quell the combination of anger and fear in my mind. 

"How long have you felt this way, Watson?"

Watson took a shallow breath and I berated myself for only just now realizing that it was more labored than usual.

"Woke up - just now. Knew it wasn't…Holmes I don't - think its seasickness…came to…to tell you."

"I know." I took a bracing breath. "And I am afraid it is not, Watson."

My friend shuddered and I put my hand on his shoulder. 

"It's Smith."


	32. Keep thy Friend

Watson

Keep thy friend

Under thy own life's key.

All's Well That Ends Well

William Shakespeare (All's Well that Ends well)

Chapter 32:"Keep thy Friend"

_**Watson**_

"Thirst, shaking, a slight fever and some disorientation…that's all so far. It's not as bad as all that, Holmes."

My friend was not listening. He was pale, his face set in a stony mask as he refilled the glass that I had dropped and brought it back, holding it out for me to take.

I reached for it and could not quite keep control of my hand. Holmes gently took hold of my wrist and pressed the glass into my hand.

"Thank you."

I sipped the water slowly as he had said, concentrating on getting it down my dry throat.

Holmes had still not spoken but watched me and after a moment or two I began to feel somewhat self-conscious. I lowered the glass.

"Holmes, I am all right so far."

"So far." 

His blatant, monotone voice cut me short and I saw that his brows had lowered and his eyes had gained a particular steely sheen which I have seen only a few times.

I shivered and took a shaky breath, the effort costing me more than a normal breath should have.

But Holmes interrupted a second time. 

"So far, yes…and it will go no farther."

He took the glass from my unsteady hand and laid it on the table. 

"Watson, I want you to rest here." 

"Where are you going?" I demanded, clutching at his sleeve as he put his hands on my shoulders, not only wanting to keep him from running amok on the ship but also because I was not thrilled at the prospect of being left alone.

"Never mind, Watson, rest here and I will be back," said he, trying to get me to lie down.

"Holmes!"

He looked straight at me then for the first time since he had declared Smith to be the culprit and his face was a mindless mask of rage and pain. He glared at me with gritted teeth.

"By heaven, Watson, why didn't you tell me?!" he snapped, shaking me. 

Then just as abruptly he released my shoulders and stepped back, the rage replaced by shame and embarrassment at having lost his temper.

"I'm sorry, Watson I…" he stopped, took a breath. "This should not have happened, the case was closed, Smith behind bars." The pain resurfaced in his expression. "For heaven's sake, Watson, how did he infect you? Why did you not tell me earlier?!"

I quelled the alarm that had risen in me at his abrupt show of temper. "I didn't know."

Holmes closed his eyes and swore under his breath, his fist clenched and quivering as though longing for a target, but of course there was none to be had. Then he turned to me again and spoke in a soft, controlled voice. 

"Watson, I think it best if you rest here a while," he repeated. 

"You are going to see Smith." 

Holmes nodded tightly. 

"I would prefer to come." I said.

"No, Watson, I don't -"

"Holmes." 

I took hold of his arm, and he looked at me again, and I saw just how worn and worried his face looked. 

That I should be infected for real this time, and feel the same terror of that terrible night, was bad enough, but Holmes…

My friend would consider it his fault, would blame himself as he did with every dodgy outcome of his investigations. Even in his defeat Smith had discovered a way to affect my friend in the worst possible way, and to perhaps cloud his judgment. 

The least I could do was show some measure of firmness and strength and go along with him…heaven knew I wouldn't be able to show it for much longer.

"I'm coming with you."

He scowled and his voice took on a reassuring tone as he tried to reason with me. 

"Watson, you need to save your strength."

"I would far rather _use_ my strength while I have it," I said. "I cannot just wait here. Not any more than last time."

Holmes frowned and I think that if he could have found some way to force me to rest he would have. 

At last he sighed. "If your symptoms worsen then I am bringing you straight back."

I smiled in a show of confidence that I did not really feel and accepted his hand as he drew me to my feet. 

I was pleased when the feeling of vertigo that had attacked me as I rose from my bed did not present itself again, but I could not keep from shivering, nor could I shake the leaden weight of exhaustion that had settled over my limbs.

Holmes drew on his coat and shoes and went to the door. I followed, bracing myself with one hand on the wall.

Holmes noticed my sluggish movements and his scowl deepened but he said nothing, instead returning and drawing my left arm over his shoulders, taking quite a bit of my weight. Together we made our way out the door towards the stairwell. 

To my surprise we made our way not to the brig but towards the crew's quarters.

"Lachlan?" I asked.

Holmes nodded. "He can get us in to see Smith, and I wish to try a conventional means first before I break down the door."

I might have laughed had not the situation been so dire and my friend so grave. It was obvious that he was quite serious, and the fact that he spoke of such things in such a calm manner only alarmed me further. His temper was there just below the surface, and heaven help the man who got in his way. Because of his barely controlled fury, he cared not if we were caught in the crew's quarters, which were off-limits to passengers.

I coughed as we stepped up onto the deck, the cold air assailing my lungs, earning me another worried look from Holmes and a tightening of his hold. 

I muttered some reassurance or other and went on in a show of normality that I did not feel. The cool air had a frightening effect on my already chill limbs, freezing the sweat on my face, making me shudder more frequently and worsening the tremors that shook me already.

It lasted only a moment though for we reached the aft staircase and were once again enveloped by the warmer air of the interior of the ship.

Holmes traversed the darkened hallways admirably and we came swiftly to the door of Lachlan's cabin. 

My friend rapped on the door lightly, keeping hold of me as he did so. 

There was a slight scuffling inside and after a moment the door opened to reveal Lachlan, looking as alert and ready as he had the morning he had come to Baker Street in the early hours. He really was a very light sleeper.

His brows were furrowed in confusion until he saw us; then they swept up again in surprise before plummeting again in concern. 

For once the sailor said nothing, standing still as a statue, simply staring at us with a worried frown, as though hoping that we would vanish as a part of some nightmare. 

It was Holmes who broke the silence at last, his tone sharp and impatient. 

"I need to see Smith, Lachlan. Now."

Lachlan's mouth opened to speak, and then he looked me up and down, took in my condition, and closed it. 

Then his face hardened like that of Holmes and he snatched his uniform jacket off a hook on the wall, pulling it on and drawing ahead of us, leading us down the hall towards the brig.

"This way…stay close."

His pace was somewhat rapid and Holmes moved to match it, pulling me off balance slightly. My friend turned an apologetic look on me as I stumbled. But I shook my head before he could speak.

"I am fine, Holmes."

The worry did not leave his face though it became hard-edged with anger. "No…you are not. That is the problem."

I shook my head again and lowered it, concentrating on keeping pace with my friend on the polished boards of the floor that passed seemingly without end beneath my feet. 

In a short time we drew up to the door that led to the small cells of the brig. A sailor stood guard there and with a few quiet words Lachlan dispersed him, taking the keys which the officer used to unlock the door. 

Then he turned to us. 

"I'll stay out here, to make sure you're not disturbed. Doctor, perhaps you would care to wait with me?" His gaze was critical and concerned.

I opened my mouth to retort, feeling some resentment towards the sailor for one of the first times, but I was interrupted by Holmes. 

"I think it best, Watson. He may be less resistant if he does not see…" my friend's voice broke.

"His handiwork," I finished softly, understanding now that my presence would only inhibit Holmes from this point on.

The detective frowned at my choice of words but did not disagree. 

"Yes."

I nodded and slipped from his grip, making my own way to steady myself against the wall.

"Be careful."

Holmes gave a very feeble imitation of his usual reassuring smile and accepted the keys Lachlan pressed into his hand and closed the door behind him. 

Lachlan gave a shaky sigh and drew the guard's stool towards us with his foot. 

"Sit down Doctor. Holmes'll have my hide if you collapse here in the hall."

I sat, not because I wanted to, but because my shaky legs agreed in full with Lachlan.

_**Holmes**_

The cells were dim, but I could make out the shadowy figure of Smith sitting on the bed behind the bars of his small cell.

He did not move but drawled as I entered the long, narrow room and closed the door firmly behind me, not wanting either of my companions to hear what was about to transpire.

"I only deal in certainties, Mr. Holmes."

I turned to him, trembling with a rage that I have rarely felt. 

He smiled as I glared. 

"You yourself said it."

His taunts had as much effect as gnats do to an angry animal, for I was already in a rage.

I approached the cell took the key out and placed it in the lock, letting the door swing open on its creaky hinges, the sound echoing eerily through the room. 

Smith's face fell for the tiniest instant. He had not been expecting that. His eyes flew quickly to the door, no doubt waiting for the guard to emerge. But upon seeing none he faced me again and his face resumed its arrogant façade of confidence. 

His very position was aggravating, lying back on his bed with his arms behind his head and his legs crossed, his coat draped casually over the bars of the cell.

For a moment our gazes remained locked, and then he spoke again more seriously, though with a smirk. 

"I warned you that I was not one to be taken so easily. You have tangled with me and again you pay the price, albeit in a somewhat indirect manner."

The thin film of control that had been keeping in my rage snapped and I seized the smaller man by his collar, dragging him from the bed and flinging him against the opposite wall. 

"How dare you!" I spat as he stumbled and caught himself with one hand on the bars, regaining his feet, the smirk still firmly in place.

"I am surprised he means that much to you, Holmes…he is after all only another expenditure, a tool. You use him like I used the ships of the Lansing line."

The remark spurred me, heating the inferno that already raged inside of me. I slammed my fist into his jaw, knocking him to the side, and he stumbled and hit his head on the bars. I landed a low blow to his stomach.

My inhibition was gone, I only knew that I wanted him to feel some of the pain that he had caused…was causing. 

But his next remark, spoke hurriedly and with a shortage of air, stopped me in my tracks. 

"Amazing how easy it was!" 

He watched as his words had the desired effect and seeing my reaction he smiled and straightened, continuing.

"What a simple matter it is to infect someone…provided you have contact…even for a moment."

My heart plummeted. 

Of course…after our escapades in the storage room. He had tackled Watson, had overpowered him, and in that moment it would have been a simple matter to prick my friend's arm with a needle or a sliver of wood or any manner of unnoticed materials. 

And in the events of the attack Watson would not have noticed. I remembered now Smith saying in the dining area that he had one final surprise for me; at the time I had imagined he was speaking of the hidden gun. No, he had been talking about – about this.

My breath came hard and fast and I approached Smith again, pulling him roughly to his feet by his shirtfront. 

"What did you do?! What did you infect him with!?"

Smith smiled. 

_**Watson**_

The moments dragged into minutes and I lowered my heavy head into my shaking hands, trying to wait patiently for Holmes to finish. 

But I could not remember ever feeling so uncomfortable, not any certain pain but just a general unwellness. My limbs shook with exhaustion and the chill that had settled, seemingly into my very bones. 

My elbows and knees and every joint that I bent began to ache and I shifted, trying to relieve them. 

I felt a hand grip my shoulder reassuringly but took little comfort in it.

_**Holmes**_

I shook him like a terrier shakes a rat and his head came crashing into contact with the bars again. His hands seized my wrists but I was stronger than he in my rage and he could only glare at me.

"What did you do?!" I demanded again, shaking with pent up fury. 

How I longed to do away with him, to thrash him soundly, to kill him even. But this was more important. Watson was more important. 

Smith sighed through his nose and when he spoke it was with the controlled voice of a scientist discussing something cold and unattached. 

"It is a new specimen, one I discovered quite by accident. It is unknown to the men of my field and I have only just begun my studies with it."

I shook him again. "The cure, Smith?!"

His glare increased but he managed to brace himself against my onslaught, his grip tightening on my wrists. 

"I have developed one, yes, I always do. It works quite beautifully."

"Where is it?"

The smirk returned. 

"You already know that I will not tell you, Holmes. How would that benefit me?"

Yes, I knew…I knew only too well. Smith was as cruel and vindictive a man as I had ever met, and just as he had denied to help me as I lay on what might have been my death bed in Baker Street, he would have no qualms about refusing help for Watson.

It was a cruel twist of fate that required me to ask for such aid from such a villain, and that the fate of one good man's life lay in the hands of a being I considered less than human. 

I swallowed hard; I would not beg him. He would only take satisfaction in it, dangling the knowledge I needed before me, in sight but never in reach. Pleading would avail me naught.

"What type of specimen?" I demanded. "A virus, a fever…what?!"

He smiled calmly once again and I felt my stomach squirm with disgust. 

_**Watson**_

"Doctor?"

The voice rang softly in my ear, urgent, worried; by its tone it was clear that it was not the first time that it had called me. I jerked my head up, wincing as the motion made the sore muscles on my back and neck pang. 

"What?"

Lachlan was watching me with that unnerving blue gaze, his face an open expression of concern.

"Do you feel all right, Doctor?"

An irrational irritation rose within me. I wanted him to go away, to be left alone. His presence was not a comfort, merely a nuisance. I just wanted to curl up into a corner and forget my surroundings.

But I forced myself to smile and nod as well as I could.

"I am fine…just tired."

_**Holmes**_

Smith sneered at me ruthlessly. 

"What…and spoil the surprise?"

I nearly lost my control then, but he would only gain pleasure from seeing how much his words affected me.

"What?" I asked again, giving him another harsh shake. "What did you do to him?" 

Another eerie smile. 

"It is a fairly simple pathogen, rather like the one you yourself contracted during our first acquaintance. He has at least three days before it kills him – I would enjoy his being alive while you can, Holmes."

My throat ran dry and I tightened my grip.

"The fever?"

Smith laughed. 

"No, the fever will rise fairly high but it will fluctuate. It alone will not bring death to a strong man."

"What else?" I demanded, grating the words between my teeth, trembling badly as if ill myself. 

"I think it would be better for you to discover that," the fiend said coldly. "It should not be long before his symptoms worsen."

I snarled and slammed him against the wall, but he lost none of his confidence. 

There was nothing I could do to him and he knew it – I would not kill the only man who knew the cure.

And as though some vengeful fate had been listening to his heartless words there came a sudden shouting outside the door. 

"Holmes! Holmes!"

"Not long," Smith said again with a smile. 

I dropped him, throwing closed the door of his cell and snatching up the keys, hurrying out of room to the hall.

An abrupt jolt of terror ran through me as I took in the scene before me, and then I was kneeling beside Lachlan at Watson's side. 

"What happened?!"

"He fell," Lachlan gasped out as I took hold of my friend's shoulders and turned him over as gently as I could manage. 

"Watson." 

My friend's face was several shades paler than before and he was shaking uncontrollably, shuddering violently beneath my hands. 

"H-Holmes." 

He was awake, for his eyes opened and fixed on my face with a look of terror. His hands came up to clutch at my jacket, they twitched and spasmed. 

But it was his breathing that alarmed me, shallow and far too quick. His chest rose and fell rapidly with every labored gasp which he pulled in raggedly through his throat. 

He groaned and flinched, his hands releasing my jacket to clutch at his stomach as he attempted to curl in on himself, his face twisting, still shivering, fresh sweat beading on his forehead.

"H-Hol-lmes!" he gasped again. 

"I – I'm here, Watson." I heard my own voice shake and attempted to steady him by bracing his shoulders, painfully aware of my own inability to help.

I could see the fear in his face, and that sickened me more than anything else. Watson was the bravest man I knew, and now he was in the grips of something that terrified him, a horror as no one should ever have to endure – death by an exotic and painful disease. He was scared.

And so was I.

"it's all right my dear fellow– I've got you," I said, trying for his sake to make my voice calm, "What's wrong…where…"

His eyes met mine, still clear and alert, then they closed again and he turned his head, groaning, wrapping his arms tightly around his middle.

"Watson!" I put my hand on his forehead and spoke in the forceful voice that I reserved for those moments of danger when obedience was imperative.

He slit open his eyes and peered at me.

"Tell me Watson."

He let out his breath in a slight whimper and spoke quickly in gasping breaths.

"Spasms…cramps…can't…"

He broke off with another groan, the effort costing him immensely.

"Holmes I can't breathe…my throat's constricting!"

I swallowed, the fact that he was a medical man and could understand what was happening only made it worse.

He cried out, his head snapping back, his hands clenching on my coat again. 

I took hold of his arms instead, trying to keep him still, to stop the painful convulsions as he twisted in panic.

"Holmes!"

"Watson, calm down, calm down and try to lie still. Try to breathe slowly, one after another old fellow."

He nodded weakly, his hands grasping desperately to hold onto me, and I looked over his head to meet Lachlan's eyes – filled with a desperation that had to be only a fraction of what was filling me right now.

He raised his eyebrows and glanced meaningfully at Smith's cell. I shook my head in defeat at his unspoken question.

"Would you like me to try a different brand of persuasion, Holmes?" Lachlan asked with a low menacing growl, his own voice shaky and unnerved by Watson's condition.

"No," I replied, turning my attention back to Watson as he let out a violent shudder, his breaths rasping harshly in his throat, "I need your help. Leave Smith for now."

Lachlan nodded

"Only for now, Holmes," the sailor replied between clenched jaws. "_Only for now_."


	33. To Reach a Port

"To reach a port we must sail, sometimes with the wind, and sometimes against it. But we must not drift or lie at anchor." – Oliver Wendell Holmes

Chapter 33:"To Reach a Port"

****

**_Holmes_**

"His cabin, quickly," I said, leading the way with Lachlan hurrying after supporting the shivering form of my friend.

I threw open the door to the small room and stepped aside as Lachlan made his way to the bed, laying Watson on it as gently as he could. My friend groaned and clenched the covers in his fists, his face white and covered in a sheen of sweat.

His breathing sounded harshly in my ear as I bent to take his jacket off, Lachlan raising him up partway. 

"Holmes." 

His voice was hoarser, thinner. His throat was indeed contracting, making it harder not only to speak but to breathe, which he did with difficulty.

"I'm here, Watson, hold on."

He groaned again, one hand clutching at my sleeve. 

"I can't…I can't…" he coughed dryly, a terrible wheezing sound in the narrow passage of his throat.

"Shush, Watson don't try to talk. Just lie back, old fellow, it's all right."

Between the pain of the convulsions and the lack of air, he was panicking, his eyes wild with fear, his breath growing ever more rapid and shallow, his knuckles white where he gripped my jacket. 

"Holm-!" he choked, coughed again, struggled for breath.

A sudden fear gripped me as he clenched his eyes shut and fought to draw in air, rasping terribly. I knew now what Smith had meant when he said that the fever alone was not what would kill a strong man. 

A victim of the disease could easily drive himself into uncontrollable panic and suffocate. 

Waves of cold ran through me, as though I had been doused with ice water. 

I could not let that happen.

I gripped my friend's arms and shook him slightly. 

"Watson! Watson, look at me!"

He shook his head violently and arched in an effort to open his air passage; the cramps made him curl in on himself again, he was shaking madly, his muscles twitching.

"WATSON!"

He turned his head at my frantic tone and fixed his wide, panicked eyes on my face. 

"Listen to me, Watson! I want you to lie still…all right? Stop fighting a moment! Lie still."

He let out a choking protest, his arms tense beneath my hands. 

"Trust me, Watson. Lie still."

He screwed his eyes shut and did as he was told, still shuddering, his face dark and twisted from the cramps.

A moment passed as I continued to brace his shoulders.

"Relax, Watson."

He let out a wheezing groan, choked and drew in a short rasping breath.

"Good man. Breathe, slowly."

He coughed, gasped and drew in another breath.

"Slowly."

He gasped again, too quickly, his breath hitched.

"Easy, Watson! Slow and easy."

Another breath, the color of his face lightened. He began to gasp in earnest now, his chest rising and falling in an increasingly smooth rhythm.

I let out the breath I had been unconsciously holding and lowered my head in relief. 

"Good man. Good man, Watson."

He opened his pain-filled eyes and looked at me, his grip on my arm lightened. 

"Holmes."

His voice was dry and thin, a bare whisper.

I patted his shoulder and tried to smile reassuringly.

"Don't talk, old fellow, just breathe. It's all right."

He nodded, closing his eyes as the spasms struck again. He moaned, a low, pitiful sound that spoke of the pain he would not admit to. 

Lachlan swallowed and looked at the sick man with a drawn, pale face. "Can't ye give him somethin'?"

"Yes," I said, trying to steady my nerves, to fall back on the cold methodical manner that I usually adopted in my investigations. I would do no good if I gave into my emotions now. "His bag is over on the table."

Lachlan went to fetch it, and I busied myself taking off Watson's shoes and belt, spreading another blanket over him. He was covered in sweat but I believed it to be from strain rather than heat, for he was still shivering madly and there was only a mild rise in his temperature.

I could not be sure, of course. I was not a doctor – the only one who was qualified to deal with this was lying on the bed.

A thought occurred to me and I put my hand on Watson's forehead again.

"Old fellow?"

Hazel eyes focused on me and I spoke quietly and calmly. 

"Shall I tell one of the ship's doctors? They would know better than I how to deal -"

My friend at once shook his head and took a sharp breath. 

"No…they don't…"

I quieted him, putting my other hand on his wrist. 

"All right Watson, if you are sure."

He nodded and tried to speak again, but I beat him to the punch.

"They don't know. I understand, old boy."

His lips twitched in the semblance of a smile, then twisted as he groaned again, his eyes closing.

Lachlan came up beside me and extended the open bag. I hesitated, my hand hovering above the selection of powders and bottles.

"Holmes." 

I jumped as a shaking hand closed over my wrist and looked over to see Watson watching me.

"Not – not a sedative…throat…"

"Right," I said, profoundly glad that one of us knew what to do. A sedative would have put him out and more than likely his breathing would have been compromised.

Watson coughed as he spoke again. 

"The powder...last night." He rasped, his throat not only tight but dry as well; he was losing a lot of moisture through the sweat.

The powder for my headache, of course. I had remained quite alert but it relaxed tense muscles - it might even assist the constriction of his throat.

The hand on my wrist jerked and tightened as Watson let out a hoarse cry, another convulsion seizing him.

"Holmes!" Lachlan said, his voice tense with urgency. 

I pulled out the small packet of powder, poured a glass of water and tipped the contents into it, stirring. 

It was of course, possible to inject the dosage, but Watson was growing dehydrated. I returned to the bed, raised his head and held the glass to his mouth.

"Drink this, Watson."

My friend looked at me, clearly asking if this was a good idea, but he knew better than I the need for moisture in the body and he sipped obediently.

He choked almost at once as his thin airway was blocked, jerking his head away coughing.

I waited until he got his breath back then returned the glass. 

"Again?"

He nodded and I tipped it slowly, he swallowed and choked, but did not pull away.

"Concentrate, Watson."

He did, closing his eyes and his brow furrowing with the effort. I tried to brace his head to keep it still.

After several more pauses for breath and a great deal of coughing Watson finished most of the glass and he went limp, his shaking worsened by his effort, his face still pale and tense.

I set down the glass and watched him, one hand on his arm, and after a time the rigid lines around his mouth eased and the twitching grew less violent. He let out a shaky breath and relaxed visibly.

"All right?" I asked and he nodded in response.

"Thank you."

"Don't talk," I reminded him, squeezing his arm to reassure myself almost as much as him. "And do not fall asleep, just breathe."

I began to draw away but was pulled up short as he caught hold of my hand. He looked at me with frightened eyes.

"I'm not leaving," I said, "I swear."

He let out a shaky breath and closed his eyes, his cheeks flushing slightly. I nearly laughed at the thought that even in this state my Boswell was embarrassed by signs of weakness or fear.

But the humor was short-lived. I made my way to the table and sat heavily on one of the chairs, resting my elbows on the polished wood, my head in my hands. 

Lachlan seated himself opposite and set the bag back where it had been, his eyes on me, still concerned.

"I'd be more than happy to go and rip Smith apart if you want me to Holmes." he said with a quick glance at Watson.

I scoffed, "Get in queue, Lachlan."

The sailor sighed, "He cannot be persuaded then?"

I shook my head. "He was quite happy to take his own life last night. His only goal now is to hurt me as much as he can before he goes to the gallows."

"And the cunning devil found the best way to do that, eh?"

I did not feel the need to answer, and for a moment there was a silence broken only by Watson's raspy breathing. Then Lachlan spoke again and his sentiments echoed mine exactly.

"What are we to do?"

"Smith is the only one with knowledge of the cure and he will not reveal it. I would not trust him in any bargain."

"What about the notes? And the cures in the trunk?" Lachlan said, his eyes lighting up momentarily.

I shook my head. 

"He was as smug as the devil himself when I spoke with him. He will have removed or hidden any notes or cure…perhaps he does not even have it with him. He claimed to have made one but that does not mean he has it."

Lachlan's brow furrowed. 

"Perhaps he's hidden it?"

"If he has, then our chances are next to nil in finding it." I sighed and ran a hand over my eyes. 

"I will of course wire Ainstree; he shall have some ideas but we cannot hope for anything monumental. This disease is new, explored only by Smith. And not even an expert like Ainstree can concoct a cure in only a few days."

Lachlan frowned in frustration. "You said he did, though, when you were ill."

I waved my hand, dismissing this. 

"He knew of the disease already – it was not solely Smith's. Not like this one."

Another silence fell and the sailor fingered his bearded chin for a moment. I concentrated on the sound of Watson's breathing, reassuring myself with its continuity, and making certain that it was not the deep, steady rhythm of sleep. 

Lachlan cast another look over at my friend then turned to me again. 

"Can he not make it through? He's a staunch man, your Doctor."

I let out a dry laugh. 

"Copper-bottomed?"

Lachlan nodded fiercely. 

"Aye."

I sighed. "There is always a chance. But knowing Smith, it is a fatal disease. Or else he would not be so confident."

"You said it was a new disease, though." Lachlan said, his face full of a desperate and stubborn determination. "He cannot know for sure. A chance is better than nothing."

I nodded, wishing I could be comforted by the thought. "If he can last three days…"

"We'll pull him through, Holmes. He's not a man to give up easily, I've seen that already. And if he can pull two of the stubbornest men on this earth back from the grave then he can see himself through as well."

I smiled slightly, "If anyone has a chance, it is Watson."

"All he needs is you to help him. He'll come through it all right."

I looked out at the porthole, where the faintest light of dawn was beginning to show over the horizon of water, illuminating the still, stormy clouds. 

My whole heart went out in a silent prayer to the heavens. _God, let it be true._

I composed myself and turned back.

Lachlan glanced at his pocket watch and cursed roundly.

"I'm going to be keelhauled or flogged for being late for the shift," he growled, casting a glance at Watson's still form on the bunk.

"You cannot risk your standing with the captain, Lachlan," I said tiredly, "we will need you yet. Go on; I shall contact you if there is any fresh news."

Lachlan walked over to Watson, who opened his eyes for a moment to fasten on the seaman's face, his mouth creasing in the faintest of smiles.

"Rest easy, Doctor – we're not going to let this man win," the sailor said, leaning close, "this is just another storm – remember what I told you?"

Watson coughed weakly, took a shuddering breath.

"I – I remember," he gasped faintly, his hand clenching round the blanket and his eyes darkening. I swallowed hard at the amount of pain I saw in those hazel depths.

"Vows made in storms, Doctor – don't forget it. You'll weather it, don't you worry. We'll not let you face it alone," Lachlan said, and again I was puzzled by the phrase – what did it mean?

Watson's eyes closed again in exhaustion, his breathing laboured, and Lachlan turned regretfully to leave.

"Take care o' yourself, Holmes – it's likely to be a long three days and we can't have you keeling over from exhaustion," he shot over his shoulder as the stateroom door shut behind him.

I stood for a moment with my head bowed, getting a firm grip upon the remaining vestiges of control I still possessed, and then I noiselessly pulled up a chair beside Watson's head.

"Watson. Can I – can I get you anything?" I asked softly, hoping the pain reliever I had given him would continue to allow his muscles to relax this slight bit.

His eyes opened, unfocused, and I moved to sit on the bed so that he would not have to turn his head.

"No – fine, Holmes," he managed shakily, although I could see the fear in his eyes.

I smiled reassuringly and started to rise when he grabbed my arm almost convulsively.

"Don't – don't leave me – please?" he gasped, that panic starting to show in his face again.

I hastily sat back down on the bed. "I will not leave you, Watson, I promise," I said, rather ashamed at how unsteady my voice was, "I'm right here, old chap."

He nodded, gasping for a breath, but made no move to release my arm. I wanted to get his mind off the inevitable, and so I sat there and asked him about the phrase I had heard both him and Lachlan use, 'Vows made in storms.'

"Can you tell me what it means, old fellow?" 

Watson's pain-filled eyes focused unsteadily upon my face as he answered.

"Old – old sailor's saying," he gasped, a shudder racking his frame, and his hand clenched convulsively upon my arm, "Vows made – in storms – are not forgotten – in port."

The effort of speaking was too costly, and he began to cough and then to choke, unable to breathe.

"Watson!" I jumped up and took him by both shoulders, forcing him to look up at me, "Watson, stop! Calm down – take a breath! Slowly, for the love of heaven!"

My frantic pleading made it through to him, for a moment later he shivered and coughed again, drawing a ragged breath and then another, his eyes closed tightly with concentration. Finally I felt his tense muscles relax and only then realized I had been holding my breath.

"I'm sorry, my dear fellow, I should not have asked you to talk," I whispered, settling him back down upon the mattress and pulling the blanket up over his clenched hands.

"Lachlan," he murmured, struggling to focus, "Lachlan – said that – we're like that – like that saying."

"Shh, Watson, you have to be quiet now," I said, an unaccounted lump forming in my throat at the truth of the seaman's words. Every close relationship was built based upon promises made in the storms of life.

I just prayed that in this storm, we would actually reach the port. Both of us, together.

Watson appeared to be nearly unconscious, no doubt exhausted by the effects of this horrid thing Smith had given him, and I went back to the table for my pipe.

I lit it with a rather unsteady hand, standing there lounging against the wall, picturing in my mind every conceivable and very slow, painful way I could make Smith die a torturous death – how I wished, longed for the opportunity to make the man suffer as no human should ever have to, for he was less than human.

I stood there for the better part of a half-hour, my overactive imagination formulating scenario after scenario that brought me a wicked pleasure – but I was suddenly jolted out of my daydreams by a weak voice from the bunk.

In one instant I was at his side. His face was no longer pale but flushed, and he was shaking worse than before.

"Holmes," he gasped weakly, "c-cold – it's –"

I caught my breath and laid my hand on his forehead, a bitter oath falling from my lips. His fever was rising, far too rapidly.

"C-cold, Holmes," he gasped again, shivering and curling up into a ball, shaking violently.

_The fever alone will not kill a strong man._

Smith's words rang in my ears like a horrid chant as I covered Watson with another blanket and took his temperature – I did not even know where the thermometer was supposed to go in his mouth, and he had to shakily guide me. I did know how to read it, and I cursed again as I did so.

It was already up to 102.

I set my jaw, went and got a basin full of cold water and rang for the steward to bring several clean towels, knowing I was going to hate the job ahead of me. The fever might not kill him, but I knew if it got high enough, above 106 as Lachlan's had been at one point, and if it stayed that high for more than a half-hour, then I could cause permanent brain damage. I shuddered at the thought.

When I had the supplies sitting on the chair beside me, I set my teeth and removed the blankets and then opened his shirt, closing my ears to his pleas of being cold although they made me sick myself to listen.

Watson tried weakly to push my hands away as I applied a cool damp cloth to his neck and chest but I firmly persisted, remembering his instructions as we had worked over Lachlan what seemed like ages ago back in Baker Street.

And as he moaned and asked me repeatedly to stop, I could only set my teeth and continue, knowing all afresh what he had gone through that night after I had been stabbed. Finally I could take it no more and removed the cloth for a moment, taking a dry one and gently patting the perspiration from his face as best I could with my hand shaking so. 

As he closed his eyes and took a hissing breath, I took his temperature again. It had gone up to 103.5. Smith was right – it would spike quickly. And according to Smith, it would do this repeatedly. How absolutely vile a man he was to cause this much suffering!

I shook all emotional thoughts from my mind as best I could and concentrated on trying to prevent Watson's fever from rising. As the cold water splashed over him once more he gasped in the shock and then began to choke again, his nearly-closed windpipe protesting the sudden arrival of oxygen.

"Watson!"

He was starting to struggle almost as he had in the water earlier yesterday – was it only just yesterday? – his panic causing his breathing to be even more obstructed.

"Watson, breathe!"

His eyes flew open and fastened upon me, pleading frantically for help, and I lifted his shoulders from the bed as he convulsed, trying to cough without air. I did my best to hold him still, but the tremors were so great that it took both arms and all my strength.

_The fever alone will not kill a strong man._

"Watson, don't you dare do this to me!" I snapped, not knowing what I was saying and not caring. "Breathe, NOW! Slowly!"

I felt him stiffen and tense, bringing his concentration back to normalcy, and I felt him at last make a small hissing noise as he got a tiny breath.

"That's it – now again. Do it, Watson!"

After a few seconds, he finally took one long, shuddering breath and then went limp in my arms. I bit my lip and laid him back down on the bed gently, seeing that he was still conscious but only just.

"S-sorry," he whispered weakly, gasping. 

I gulped down that annoying lump in my throat.

"It's all right, old chap. Everything's going to be all right," I said, desperately wishing it were true. 

I was loathe to continue the cold water treatment but knew I had to, to attempt to save off that fever – I had felt the heat emanating from my friend while I was trying to get him to breathe, and it was rising rapidly.

Watson closed his eyes and made no move other than to flinch when I applied the compresses again – he was too exhausted in this fight for life.

And this was only the first day – there were two more to go.

I dared not think past that time.


	34. Such is Hope

"_What oxygen is to the lungs, such is hope to the meaning of life."  
Emil Brunner  
_

Chapter 34: "Such is Hope"

_**Watson**_

I have heard some remark how easy it is to fall asleep on a ship, but this has never been the case for me. The motion of the waves feels to me unsteady rather than comforting, and when on a ship I sleep more lightly than I am apt to do on land.

On this occasion I awoke very suddenly as a loud noise cracked in my ears. Visions and memories of cannons and Ghazi rifles flashed through my head and on instinct I tried to sit up, a low cry rising in my throat.

I found that I was weighed down with something that seemed extraordinarily heavy to my tired muscles. I gazed about the semi-dark room, at the gas-lamps only half lit and a hazy pale light coming from the tiny porthole, and felt the cry suddenly stick in my throat.

It was as though a strong hand had suddenly closed around my neck! I began to choke, panicking, struggling for air, recalling the terror I had felt in the water only a short while ago.

Where was I? What was happening? Why couldn't I breathe?

There was a sudden scrambling and scuffling not a short space away and I saw a shadowy figure come close. I tried to twist away, gripping my throat with one hand and fending it off with the other.

"Watson?!"

The well-remembered voice of my greatest friend rang through the darkness and I gripped at his jacket instead, trying to gasp out his name.

I felt his thin, strong hands on my shoulders, helping me to lie back.

"Don't talk, Watson, I'm here. Breathe, old fellow."

I was trying to! I couldn't!

"Relax, Watson! Please! It's all right, I swear."

His words were steady and soothing, and despite the panic that I could feel rising in my chest I trusted him. I tried to settle, tried to draw in air without struggle.

"Good, Watson, easy does it."

The choking hold on my throat tightened slightly as the rest of my body relaxed and I was able to draw in a breath.

Holmes sighed shakily and his grip was not so tight.

I drew in another breath and felt it regulate.

"Holmes." I was startled by how weak and hoarse my own voice sounded.

My eyes were assaulted by sudden light as the detective reached over and turned up the gas by my bunk.

He looked terrible, his face worn and haggard, deep shadows lining his eyes.

I glanced around at the cabin and took in the basin beside my bed, my bag sitting open on the table, and the sodden towels lying on the floor.

Then the events of the previous night came back full force and I looked again at my friend, who had not yet shaved and was in the same rumpled set of clothes he had worn on our chase for Smith.

He was watching me in concern, and had apparently only just awoken…one of the chairs beside the table was overturned.

He smiled tightly and sat on the edge of my bed.

"By heaven, Watson, it is good to see you awake."

I looked down at myself and saw that I had been covered with several blankets, which felt like lead weights to my body.

Blazes, I was tired.

"What – what time is it?" I whispered, trying to stop the air from wheezing in my tight throat. Squirming as the by now familiar cramps began.

"After eight in the morning, old fellow. Yes, you were in a fever for the last six hours," Holmes replied in answer to my unspoken question.

I drew too sharp a breath and began to cough, feeling every muscle in my chest and neck seeming to scream a protest. I was heartily ashamed of the small whimper that escaped my lips as I clutched at the blankets trying to manage the cramping pain.

I felt Holmes's steadying arm round my shoulders, elevating my head and chest so that I could breathe easier, and finally I managed to bring the choking under control – but the pain still remained. Every muscle in my body seemed to be crying out in agony, and I was shaking with the amount of pain as he settled me back with a gentleness I had no idea lay dormant in his proud nature.

I set my jaw and closed my eyes tightly, not wanting him to have to watch any more of this than he had already – but I could not hide the muscle spasms from his observation or the perspiration that I felt rolling off my face as I gritted my teeth silently.

I opened my eyes as I felt a wonderfully cool sensation on my flushed face. Holmes was rather awkwardly patting my forehead with a cold wet cloth. I suddenly wondered if he had been the one to deal with the fever he had said I had the last few hours – I could remember next to nothing about it.

"Thank you," I rasped hoarsely.

He nodded nervously and rubbed his sleeve across his eyes, tossing the cloth down onto the pile on the floor.

"The fever – is that – is that what Smith said would – would finish me?" I began shakily, wondering how high it had gotten.

"Don't say that!"

I was startled at the fury and thinly veiled desperation I heard in his voice as he almost snapped at me, grasping both my hands with a grip that could have bent steel.

"I'm – I'm sorry," I whispered, my own hands clenching as another ripple of pain shot through my cramping muscles. I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment and felt Holmes return my grip

When I opened them again I saw that Holmes was looking off at the wall, his lips set in a grim thin line.

"Smith said the fever would not kill a strong man, Watson. He refused to tell me what would, but it has become obvious to me that –"

"Asphyxiation," I inserted hoarsely.

"Yes. That or dehydration are the only two things I can think of. Speaking of which, you need to drink some water, Watson."

I grimaced; I most definitely did not relish trying to choke it down. But I knew as well as Holmes – better, in fact – that it was necessary. I had heard Holmes talking to Lachlan, saying I had three days. I would have to have all my strength if I was to even attempt to fight off this thing.

Holmes released my hands and poured a glass of water, returning to perch on the edge of the bunk and raising me to a sitting position.

The first sip seemed to lodge in my throat and I spluttered and coughed, wheezing for breath. But after a few seconds I nodded to him and tried again, with not much better results. My throat felt as if it were completely closed, and those blasted cramping muscles made it no easier to concentrate upon drinking.

I to this day am amazed at the patience of Sherlock Holmes, for it took me a good half-hour to finally get the small glass down and he never budged, never once asked me to try harder.

"You need another, Watson," he said apologetically when I had done.

I moaned and slumped backwards in dismay – I was so very tired, my entire body felt like a dead weight.

Holmes's face twisted with a mixture of emotions I could not quite place as he tried to settle me gently back onto the mattress without jarring me, wincing himself when I made a small gasp as the spasms grew worse.

"Easy, easy. It's all right, old fellow – it will pass, give it a few minutes," he said soothingly, patting my arm and rearranging the blankets he had round me.

I closed my eyes again and concentrated on breathing as best I could, too tired to even think anymore. All I wanted to do was curl up into a miserable little ball and sleep. I was so exhausted – I couldn't fight anymore, I just couldn't.

Finally the spasms did pass for the most part, and I looked up to see Holmes sitting at the table, rubbing his head and his eyes alternately.

"Holmes."

He jumped and then scrambled back to me with a haste that I would have found comically endearing if the situation had not been so dire.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I said hoarsely, trying to manage a smile, "I want to you get some sleep – were you up with me all night?"

"Of course I was – what do you take me for?" he asked indignantly, a flush coming over his pale features.

"I know – I know how exhausting – taking care – of a sick man – can be," I said, taking small breaths slowly between phrases.

"I must admit I do not know how you did it with me," he said quietly, sitting wearily on the edge of the bunk.

I looked at him as best I could with my disoriented vision.

"What - what's the matter, Holmes?"

He glanced up at me, his face troubled.

"Do you remember anything?"

"Of last night? No, it all is just a blurry nightmare," I whispered, trying to think.

His brow furrowed uncertainly, and I blinked to clear my vision and tried to focus my mind. Something was bothering him, very much so.

"Why – why do you ask? What is the matter?" I asked.

He opened his mouth to say something, stopped, and apparently changed his mind.

I was not to be deterred – I was too tired to waste time in tact or prevaricating.

"Don't give me that – what is bothering you? Was it something I –" I gasped suddenly as I choked.

My vehemence had caused me to forget about the breathing difficulty again, and I once more felt that hand seem to grip round my throat, cutting off my oxygen. It was like drowning all over again – and Holmes had said it was suffocation that would kill me, not the fever! I couldn't breathe!

"Watson! Watson look at me!"

I tried to – but I could feel my lungs straining, trying to cough without any air, sending a convulsive shudder through my entire frame.

"Watson! Stop trying so hard! Look at me!"

I clenched my hands round his jacket front as I choked again, trying to follow his instructions. I saw his frightened face and the sight gave me the fortitude to fasten my eyes on him.

"Count to three – don't try to breathe, Watson, wait a minute! Stop trying so hard!"

I obeyed, holding my breath and counting to three, then trying again. This time, a blessed tiny stream of air came through and I had never felt such relief.

"That's it, old fellow, try again – slowly!"

I closed my eyes and concentrated. Finally I felt my lungs get back under control and I could breathe shallowly but regularly.

But I was conscious now of a fact I had been trying to avoid admitting since this began – I could no longer pretend otherwise.

I was scared.

_**Holmes**_

I could see the fear in Watson's eyes as he finally got his breathing under control – and the fact that he would not let go of me bore witness to that elementary deduction. I did not blame him in the least, for I was myself afraid.

Afraid for him, afraid to lose him, afraid of having to watch him suffer like this for two more days – I did not know if I could stand it. It was not supposed to end like this, in this fashion. I had always entertained some fond notion that we would go out together, if we ever had to. It _could not_ end like this!

I had only just returned from the grave slightly over a month ago – if Smith carried out this plan I should be better off at the bottom of the Reichenbach Falls with Moriarty, if I had to return to London without Watson.

It was unthinkable. There had to be something to be done.

I swallowed hard as I tried, unsuccessfully, to gently disentangle myself from the uncomfortable bent-over position in which I was, for Watson was still clutching at my jacket with his eyes tightly shut. I gave up trying for the moment, listening to his raspy breaths and slightly relaxing when they evened out.

There was a soft knock at the door and our seaman entered without preamble, his honest face almost as worried as mine. He took one look at us and his face drained of all color, white under his tan as he walked over to us.

He took in the empty water basin, the towels, my probably bloodshot eyes, and Watson's death-grip on my jacket, and I could see that he was able to perceive the situations without asking unnecessary questions.

He glanced at me and then back to Watson, laying a hand on my friend's shoulder with a firmer grip than mine.

"Here now, Doctor, you've got to let Holmes go and clean up at least – he looks rather frightening in that sorry state, you know?" he said lightly, tugging gently on Watson's shoulder.

His eyes opened again, and I could still see the fear in them, but he relinquished his hold on me and leant back against the pillow, exhaustion leaving no room for embarrassment. He glanced from Lachlan back to me, and I saw some of the terror leave his features and be replaced by worry.

"You do look half-dead, Holmes," he whispered with the weakest of smiles.

The words were in rather poor taste, but he had not meant them as such. And to be brutally honest, I felt half-dead as well.

"Lachlan, will you –"

"Yes, yes, of course, Holmes. I'm off duty now – I'll stay with him while you go and clean up a bit. If that suits you, Doctor?"

It was testimony to my friend's altruistic nature that I could tell he did not want me to leave, but his concern for me won over his fear and he nodded, closing his eyes and lying still.

I nodded my thanks to Lachlan and made my way to my stateroom, where I hurriedly changed and shaved, returning in a matter of minutes to Watson's cabin. Lachlan put a finger to his lips as I entered.

"Is he asleep?" I whispered as the sailor came up to me.

"Yes. I was wonderin' 'bout it being dangerous for his breathing, so I propped him almost upright – he's so exhausted he could sleep upside down, I'm reckoning," Lachlan replied, glancing back at Watson, cozily ensconced in a cocoon of pillows and blankets.

He appeared to be resting peacefully, his face free for the moment of pain and breathing evenly albeit a bit shallowly, and I suddenly felt my legs start to buckle; Lachlan jumped forward and pushed me into a chair, sitting beside me and glancing at me with concern which I waved off – I was merely relieved.

"How was his night?"

"High fever from 2 to after 7 this morning," I said wearily, rubbing my head.

I was very much bothered by what I had heard from him in his delirium last night – I had had no idea that my death would be sufficient cause to conjure up such hellish things as he had seen and said last night in his incoherency. Blaming himself for leaving me at the Falls? I had known the letter was a hoax and I _wanted_ him to leave – but evidently he blamed himself for it, for last night he had brokenly sobbed about it, evidently thinking in his delirium that I was still dead.

This last night had held more emotions for me than I had felt in my whole life – and I very much did not enjoy not being able to be in control. I sternly shook myself and clenched my jaw, using every bit of my formidable willpower to push all feelings for now back under that façade I normally hid them behind.

"Lachlan. I am going to have to inspect Smith's cabin – I may be able to find some clue," I said briskly.

Lachlan glanced meaningfully at Watson's sleeping form.

"I hate to impose upon you after all you've done, Lachlan –"

"No imposition, Holmes. You can't leave him here alone, he might suffocate without anyone to help him," the seaman replied.

I nodded. "I shall not be more than two or three hours. If he wakes, tell him I shall be right back?"

"Of course, Holmes. I say, you should get some late breakfast or early luncheon before you do this, because you're likely to keel over otherwise."

"No."

"Holmes!"

"Don't raise your voice!" I hissed, glancing back at Watson.

The sailor glared at me with a steely blue gaze.

"I – I cannot, not right now," I said at last, swallowing hard.

Lachlan scowled but dropped the idea.

"But if he wakes, try to get him to drink some more water or even some broth or something?" I asked, wishing my voice would hold steady.

"Of course. Now get going, you."

I managed a smile and reluctantly exited the stateroom, throwing one last glance back over my shoulder to ensure that my friend was still sleeping peacefully.

Then I turned my mind to Smith, using the anger and the hatred to clear all else from my thought processes.

One thing was certain. If Watson died, Smith would not live long enough to reach the next port. I would see to that personally.

_**Lachlan**_

The doctor appeared to be resting comfortably, or at least as comfortably as he could, being on his deathbed – I stopped myself with a firm shake. No, I refused to believe such a thing. He would pull through this. He had to, or I believed I should probably have to prevent Holmes from shooting Smith in cold blood and then perhaps turning the gun on himself.

Holmes was a cold man, the proudest cove I'd ever seen. But I knew every man has a weakness, and obviously this was his – I could only try to figure from the room what had happened last night. It had to have been horrid for him to look as bad as he did when I came in the room not long ago.

I cleaned up the towels and basin, ringing for the steward and setting them outside the door – did not want to get caught in here fraternizing with a passenger. Although if it boiled down to choosing between my duty to the captain or helping Holmes take care of his friend, it took no brainwork to deduce that I should choose.

I sent a silent plea out of the porthole into the midmorning sky for Holmes to find a lead, for both their sakes.

_**Holmes**_

I spent close to three hours ransacking Smith's cabin, searching for anything that might give me a clue. As I had suspected, the cures and notes in the trunk were all from his past studies, dating at least a year previously. This was a new ailment, a new germ. He had nothing visible written about it.

I cursed roundly and slammed the lid of his clothes trunk shut with violence. There was only left the bureau, which I methodically inspected – the usual toiletries and personal articles, a few cravats and shirts. Nothing of importance.

But when I took out the trousers form the bottom drawer, nearly having given up hope, I heard paper rustling in the pockets of the garment and I hastily extricated the items. Three different notes on cheap writing tablet paper but all in the same hand, a strong male hand. I hastened over to the light from the porthole to read them.

ROOMS 113 AND 115, DIRECTLY BELOW YOU. NO ADJOINING DOOR.

Those were our stateroom numbers! I hastily read the other two notes.

TWO DEATHS SO FAR FROM NUMBER 45. NUMBER 102 SEEMS TO BE NOT AS LETHAL NO DEATHS AS OF YET.

CONTACTED CREW AS PER YOUR REQUEST. STAGED ACCIDENT TO HAPPEN ON SECOND CLASS DECK TOMORROW. PAYMENT UPON RIDDANCE OF TWO TARGETS?

I caught me breath suddenly. The notes were all signed with the scrawling, curled initials 'JB'. JB – these notes, someone had been keeping tabs on both us and Smith…

Wait.

Wait just a moment.

That meant…

This meant that Smith had a confederate! An assistant! One who knew the diseases enough to name them by number and also to see if they were lethal. One who Smith trusted with his information. One who had obviously, judging by these notes, been his right-hand man.

All along this journey, I was going after Smith alone– it never occurred to me that he might have a confederate!

The wild idea sent a streaming spark of hope back into my mind. Smith had a confederate, one who was knowledgeable about these diseases. This man, if I could find him, would be our last hope.

I had not been able to make Smith crack and give me the information I desperately needed.

But by heaven, I would make that assistant squirm and crawl – he would give me the information. He _had_ to – Watson's life was hanging on this one thin hope now. I would make the confederate, this JB, tell me where the cure was or at least the formula for it.

If I could find the correct JB on a ship of over 500 people.

If.

No, _when_.

When. When I found him.

I would find him – I had to find him. I simply had to.


	35. The Storm Breaks

_When the storm breaks, each man acts in accordance with his own nature. Some are dumb with terror. Some flee. Some hide. And some spread their wings like eagles and soar on the wind._

_Elizabeth the Golden Age_

Chapter 35 "The Storm Breaks"

_**Lachlan**_

For a few hours I kept watch as the Doctor rested, and by some hand of Providence he lay quite peacefully, and his breathing though it was shallow and strained was as regular as waves on a shore.

The dawn came and went and the storm that had hit last night was still threatening outside of the window, dark clouds hanging low in the sky. It was not until near on three hours later, when I standing to stretch my legs and staring out of the porthole that the peace was finally broken by sounds from the bunk.

I turned to see the Doctor stirring, his eyes flickering open. For a moment he lay still, staring up at the ceiling of the cabin, but then he turned his head and scanned the room. Fear entered his face and he began to shake again; his breathing grew thin and strained and I went quickly to his side, putting a hand on his shoulder, trying to keep him still.

"Hang on there, Doctor."

But he had already grown tense and even as I watched his breathing stopped, the rise and fall of his chest ceased and his throat closed off with a sharp choke.

"Doctor!" I gripped both his arms and his eyes flew to my face, wide and panicked. "Come on, man!"

His throat worked as he swallowed tightly. He closed his eyes, and with a shudder and an amount of control I could credit to few men, the Doctor lay back against the pillows, his hands gripping my wrists like I'd seen him cling to the life-preserver yesterday.

He gasped suddenly, short and quick, as his airway opened. He coughed and grimaced.

His hold on my wrists did not ease and he did not open his eyes, and after a bit I eased my own grip, trying to comfort now as much as steady.

"All right?"

He nodded and shivered, trembling beneath the pile of blankets that Holmes had placed on him.

"Are ye cold?"

He shook his head and spoke in a weak rasp, in-between his broken gasping.

"Cramps…not…" he broke off with a moan and I felt his hands begin to twitch where they gripped my wrists.

"Just cramps…blazes!...where…"

He stopped for a moment took several slow breaths and seemed to get a grip on himself. "Where is…Holmes?"

"Searchin' Smith's cabin - he's safe, I swear it."

"How long?"

"A few hours." I tried to speak quietly but there was no easing of tension in the good Doctor's face, his jaw set.

I took careful hold of his hands and eased them off my arms; they clenched into fists and he turned his head towards the wall with a slight, almost inaudible whimper.

"Blazes!...It hurts!"

That shook me up more than anything, for even though I had known him a short while I had not heard the Doctor complain about any discomfort. And here he was, whispering his pain to the walls of the cabin, as though speaking it would somehow ease it.

"Doctor, Holmes said you were to drink something," I said.

He took a shaky breath and turned back to look at me with a nod. I fetched him a glass and put my arm round his shoulders so he could drink.

He was incredibly thirsty by this time, for he sipped the water eagerly, sputtering and coughing with every swallow. Several times I had to stop the tipping of the cup so he could get his breath back.

At last he turned his head away and shook it, the glass still a third full.

"No more."

I sighed, for by the sound of his voice and the sweat on his brow he was still losing more water than his poor body could afford.

"You need it, Doctor."

"I can't."

"Holmes'll be after me if you don't finish it. He's already worryin' himself to pieces. And how do you expect to persuade him the next time he's ill, if you aren't a model patient yerself?"

The corners of his mouth twitched and he sighed.

"I'll never…wheedle him…again…if I get…through this."

I propped him up better, shifting my arm to tease some feeling back into it. The Doctor was no featherweight.

"Come on, Doctor, if you can get this down I'll get you some broth from the galley later."

Reluctantly he took another sip and swallowed and after a few more minutes finished the glass. I set it aside and let him fall back onto the pillows, his breathing labored but the shaking somewhat eased.

"See," I said softly, gripping his shoulder. "You're doin' well, Doctor. How's yer breathin'?"

"No worse…have you…been here…all this time?"

I scowled at him, "You don't even need to ask that, Doctor. Neither Mr. Holmes nor myself are goin' to leave you to face this alone. We'll take care of you, all you need to do is hang on."

He smiled, the first time I had seen him do so since he had fallen ill; and though it was weak, the gesture was genuine.

I leaned against the cabin wall beside the bunk, folding my arms comfortably.

"You know, Doctor, we never got to finish our discussion on ghosts and the like, what with Holmes havin' no patience for such things."

The smile remained and the Doctor settled comfortably into his pillows, taking advantage of the brief respite he was having from the pain.

"No, Lachlan, we didn't."

I felt a smile creep up my own face at the sick man's look of interest. Holmes was right, he was a romanticist.

"And it's not just ghosts. I remember one time on a sailing boat just off the coast of south Wales…"

_**Holmes**_

I reached the cabin and pulled open the door in time to hear the deep, sonorous tones of our seaman telling some wild tale about an apparition in a storm, though he broke off when I stepped in.

Watson was awake and appeared to be no worse than when I had left. He and the seaman turned to look as I entered.

"Holmes," my friend said weakly, a look of great relief coming over his face.

I crossed over to his bunk, "I would ask how you are, my dear Watson, but if you have the stomach to listen to the fanciful tales of a sailor you must be feeling better. "

Lachlan snorted, but the twinkle in his blue eyes indicated he was in better spirits than when I had left him.

"You look quite contented yourself, Holmes.," he said. "Like a cat who's found the cream."

Watson's expression lightened slightly, and he shifted to a higher position on the pillows. "Holmes…did you…"

I nodded, cutting him off, for he was still short of breath. "I did not find the cure or any notes on it, but I found something else which may lead us to that end."

Perhaps Watson is correct when he says that I have a love of theatricality, for I could not help deriving pleasure from the surprised and eager faces of my two companions.

"What?" Lachlan asked impatiently.

"Correspondence," I said, seating myself on the edge of Watson's bunk and holding the notes aloft for perusal. "Smith had an associate! Probably a hired man."

Lachlan took one and glanced it over before letting out a harsh laugh and his smile widened, "And a hired man can be bought off!"

Watson was looking at me with an eager eye and it eased my heart a bit that the fear was absent, replaced by a genuine hope. "You think he knows?"

"He knew of the other diseases. He should know of this one. I am certain, my dear Watson."

"But can you find him?" Lachlan asked, his exuberance somewhat faded. "It took you over a week to locate Smith."

I swallowed at the hidden meaning of the words. Time was short. Watson had only two days left. Lachlan did not doubt my abilities, but the speed with which I could apply them.

"I _will_ find him." I said through clenched teeth, meeting first the unnerving blue gaze and then the gentle hazel eyes of my friend.

How could I not when the second looked at me with that amount of complete trust and devotion?

"Right then.," Lachlan said, pushing himself away from the wall. "I'll leave you to it then, seein' as I couldn't persuade you to take a rest before you topple over."

"No."

He nodded, "Thought not. In that case I'm goin' to go and get a bit of shut-eye so I can take over when you do collapse."

He smiled at Watson and gripped his hand. "Hang on, Doctor."

Watson nodded tiredly, and Lachlan turned to me.

"He did manage to have a good glass o' water but I've had some broth brought up you'll need to give him."

I glanced over at the table and saw that a tray had been placed there with several dishes on it.

"That looks like more than broth," I remarked to Lachlan's retreating back.

The seaman paused in the doorway and turned back with a stern blue gaze. "Aye, Mr. Holmes…the rest is for you unless you think the Doctor is up to some bacon."

I opened my mouth to retort but he had already closed the door firmly behind him.

I sighed and turned to look at the offending tray with its steaming dishes, then shot a glance at Watson. His eyes were closed.

I set the letters on the table and as quietly as I could scooped the majority of the food onto a plate. There was a wastebin in the room but that would not do; Lachlan would be sure to think of looking in such a place.

A stream of light coming from the clouded porthole drew my eye and a sudden elation filled me.

Aha.

I crossed over to it, eased it open and with one smooth flick, emptied the contents of the plate into the sea.

I glanced quickly to see if Watson had noticed, but it seemed that my Boswell was well and truly exhausted. For he had not even changed positions, and the bowl of broth still lay on the table. Good. He had enough to worry about without badgering me about my eating habits.

"Watson."

He very tiredly opened his eyes to focus unsteadily on my face.

"Come on, old chap, I need you to sit up for me now," I said quietly, slipping one arm under his shoulders and stuffing several pillows behind his back, gently settling him back into them.

The fact that he was clutching the blankets in a white-knuckled grip, saying nothing, did not escape my notice – how I wished I could give him something that would deaden the pain. But I dared not; who knew how any drug would react with the pathogen Smith had infected him with.

"All right?"

He nodded weakly, closing his eyes for a moment.

I turned back to the table, picking up the bowl of broth Lachlan had brought to us, frowning in thought. It would be very degrading for him to be spoon-fed. I poured the lukewarm liquid into a cup instead.

"Watson, I am sorry but you have to get this down," I said, settling down on the edge of the bunk beside my suffering friend.

He opened his eyes and moaned softly.

"I can't, Holmes," he said hoarsely, "too – too hard."

"I know, old fellow, I know," I said soothingly, "but you still have to. Come on now."

He pleaded wordlessly with me to not make him have to choke all over again, but I refused to let myself be swayed – he had to stay hydrated and he could not afford to go three days without nourishment; he would weaken and not be able to fight like I knew he still had to for two days.

"Please, Watson," I finally resorted to pleading when he still refused to attempt it – I could hardly blame him, for we both knew the pain it was going to cause to his closed throat.

He shook his head weakly, "I can't…hurts…"

"Confound it, Watson, don't make me inject it into you!" I said in exasperation.

He stared at me and then managed a weak laugh.

"You would make…a most horrid…nurse, Holmes," he said hoarsely but by his tone indicating surrender.

I chuckled and held the cup to his lips, for his hands were too shaky to do it himself, and he obediently tried to swallow, only managing a sip before that awful coughing started.

"Easy, easy – there's no rush, Watson. Take a breath now. That's it."

For the better part of twenty minutes, we went on like that, and finally the cup had been emptied.

"Good man. Rest for a moment, Watson – then you need some water," I said, patting his shoulder encouragingly.

He scowled feebly at me as I turned to pour a glass of water. When I looked back, he was turned away from me, shivering and grasping the blankets with a grip that could have shredded them.

"Are you cold, old fellow?" I asked worriedly, setting the cup down and bending over him.

"No…just…just those spasms…again," he gasped, burying his face in one of the pillows behind him with a strangled cry of pain.

The sound drove a pain straight through my heart – he was trying to how a brave face. It was simply not fair, so absolutely unjust, for a man like him to have to do this.

As he gave another choked cry, his breath hitched in his throat and in an instant he was again coughing without oxygen, convulsing as he tried desperately to breathe. I frantically pulled him upright, all the while performing the ritual that I was becoming used to by now of talking him through it as calmly and steadyingly as I could.

"It's all right, old fellow, easy does it. I'm right here – slowly now."

I felt the perspiration trickling down under my collar as he finally managed a small gasp and the color started to drain again from his face as the air flow was restored and he started to breathe regularly, albeit somewhat laboured.

I sighed with relief as I laid him back on the pillows, feeling him trembling whether from fear or the pain I did not know which. His eyes were tightly shut, putting all his concentration upon regulating his breathing, and I pulled the blankets up round him. The water would have to wait for a while.

When I was sure that his breathing was becoming steady at last, I started to rise but was stopped as his eyes flew open in terror and he reached weakly for my hand.

"I am just getting those notes from off the table, dear chap," I reassured him, "I am not leaving. Just a moment."

I saw the fear fade slowly from his features and he looked on with a weak interest as I snatched the papers from the table and then pulled my chair close to his bed and straddled it backwards, looking at the three pieces of paper that were my only hope to finding this cure I was willing to give my life to discover.

"Go – go ahead," I heard Watson's hoarse voice with the vestige of a mischievous grin, "dazzle me – with your – deductions, Holmes."

I smiled at his valiant attempt at humour and then perched beside him on the bed, handing him one of the papers. He peered at it blearily.

"What – what can you – " he stopped, coughing again and taking a thin breath.

"Don't try to talk, Watson," I said gently, patting his arm, "I appreciate your efforts as a sounding board but your not choking is far more important to me right now."

He managed a small smirk before handing the paper back to me and limply falling back against the cushions. I fluffed up the pillows absently, my mind already jumping a hundred miles a second like a racing engine.

JB. The passenger list – no, no. It could easily be an alias. I would have to do this through deduction alone; there was no other way.

The paper was from a cheap writing tablet, the kind that both Watson and I as well as half the writing population kept in our writing desks. The writing was a strong masculine hand, a man in his mid to late thirties I should judge with tolerable accuracy, and obviously of strong character. The fact that the writing was in block letters negated any other helpful distinguishing features.

"Holmes?" I heard Watson's weak voice slip into my thoughts.

"Yes, my dear fellow?" I looked down at him.

"Can – can I go to sleep now?"

I swallowed down the lump in my throat at the almost childish plea and nodded.

"Yes, old chap. I shall be right here to watch you," I replied softly.

I heard a murmured thank-you before his eyes closed and his breathing started to slow and grow slightly more heavy as he drifted off, trusting me to make sure he did not start to suffocate. Then I pushed the emotional thoughts from my mind and turned back to the problem at hand.

There was a scent of strong tobacco of an Eastern variety on the paper but no other distinguishing odors. The papers were white and had no stains save one that looked like coffee on the corner of the second note – no help there.

I forced down the rising panic in my mind – there had to be _something_, even a tiny detail, that would put me on the correct scent. There simply had to be; I refused to give up. I was Sherlock Holmes – I found clews that no one else did. There must be something.

Watson stirred and moaned slightly in his sleep, taking a wheezing breath. I immediately was shaken out of my study by the sound, glancing up anxiously as he moved restlessly before dropping back into merciful unconsciousness.

Then a sudden thought hit me like a load of brick – how could I have forgotten to wire Ainstree? Even if the man had not the cure, he might be able to tell me something that would help Watson, something I could give him to either deaden the pain or open up his throat a bit.

I scribbled out a wire and rang for the steward, telling him to send it off immediately. I just hoped the wireless operator in Smith's employ was not on duty, for he might prevent its going through.

Then I laid a hand on Watson's forehead – the fever had not begun to rise again at least, for which I was grateful. I tucked the corner of the blanket in round him and then collapsed back into my chair, thinking rapidly, unable to light my pipe for fear it would cause him to cough and choke.

Those notes were not of any help in and of themselves – there was some all-important thing that I was overlooking, some clue that was staring me in the face that I could not quite put my finger on. What was I missing?

I took a long deep breath, clearing my mind of all else but the problem at hand. Something, someone, had the information I needed. I was missing something, somewhere…

I picked up the papers again and re-read the terse messages.

ROOMS 113 AND 115, DIRECTLY BELOW YOU. NO ADJOINING DOOR.

TWO DEATHS SO FAR FROM NUMBER 45. NUMBER 102 SEEMS TO BE NOT AS LETHAL NO DEATHS AS OF YET.

CONTACTED CREW AS PER YOUR REQUEST. STAGED ACCIDENT…

Staged accident. The crew – the three men that we had battled with on the deck, they had not been contacted by Smith but by his confederate. They would know his location.

And it would be easy to get his identity from the smaller man, he had been easily intimidated before and was only too glad to give me the information about Smith that I required!

I could have kicked myself, for the cry of triumph I unleashed without thinking woke Watson abruptly, and he started with a gasp of fright, staring wildly round the room. I quickly seated myself beside him and calmed him.

"Easy, Watson, I'm sorry – I did not mean to startle you," I said softly, seeing him visibly relax as I came into his field of vision.

"You – you found something?" he whispered hoarsely, coughing a little.

I took the opportunity to fetch the water glass.

"Yes, I believe so, Watson. Now drink this and I shall tell you all about it," I said, slipping my arm round his shivering form and raising him.

"B-blackmail, Holmes," he said with a tiny trace of a smile, but he had to be very thirsty for did not fight me on the matter. He managed to get half of it down before taking too sharp an intake of breath and spluttering, suddenly choking once more.

"Easy, old fellow – slowly now," I murmured, bracing his shoulders until the fit had passed.

He nodded, concentrating deeply, and regulated his breathing and determinedly finished the rest of the glass without mishap. It was a mark of pride for both of us that he had not required my assistance.

"Well done, dear chap," I said, setting him back down, "now, I have an idea about finding this JB."

His clouded eyes fastened upon me quizzically, too weary to formulate the question. I explained the matter to him, and saw the light of hope illuminate his exhausted features.

"But I cannot leave you here alone, Watson," I said reassuringly, "As soon as Lachlan has had a few hours' sleep and returns then I shall go immediately to find that sailor and get him to tell me about this assistant of Smith's."

I half-expected him to tell me to go ahead, that he would be fine – but I could see by the lurking fear in his eyes that he was going to do nothing of the kind. The poor chap was too scared that he would suffocate without me here to talk him through it.

"Go back to sleep now, Watson, it will make the time go by faster," I said, seeing that he was still shivering and obviously in pain, "I shall be right here to watch you until Lachlan comes back."

I saw him blink exhaustedly, already drowsy, and he squeezed my hand weakly before his eyes fluttered closed once more. And I sat there until his grip relaxed in sleep, preparing for the vigil ahead of me. My own sleep would simply have to wait.


	36. I Have Not Yet Begun to Fight

"I have not yet begun to fight!" - John Paul Jones, Naval captain during the American Revolution, as he faced overwhelming odds which he later defeated.

Chapter 36 "I Have Not Yet Begun to Fight"

_**Holmes**_

"Don't act impetuously!" Lachlan growled at me as I tugged on my jacket with shaking hands.

I glared at him but said nothing; his harsh words were excusable, for he was suffering from a portion of the stress I myself was feeling.

"I am quite in control!" I snapped back, trying to straighten my clothing as best as I could; for I had not had time to change and I would not waste more precious time doing so.

"I don't see how," Lachlan said unhappily. "You ate nothing yesterday, and you haven't slept for over a day. And after last night…"

I silenced him with a look, for I did not want to be reminded of last night. The second such night, in which my dearest friend lay in the bouts of a fever, lapsing again and again into a delirious state, and then painfully lucid when he was not.

Smith's germ had taken a stronger hold and the symptoms themselves were becoming more evident - between the chills, the hot flashes, and the cramps Watson had not had a moment of respite all night, and the fluids he had so laboriously taken in the previous day were more than sweated out, leaving him exhausted and dehydrated.

And I had stood by, almost entirely helpless, unable to do anything but hold cold cloths to his head and chest in an attempt to keep him comfortable, listening as he pleaded and wept and cursed angrily at me. Until finally at dawn Lachlan had come to relieve me so I was free to pursue Smith's lackey.

I looked to where Watson lay on the bed now, pale and drawn as I had ever seen him, too dry to sweat, too tired to sleep, struggling for each and every breath of air that rasped in and out of his too-thin throat.

I swallowed but the painful lump in my throat would not leave it. He looked like a dying man…indeed he was, slowly dying by degrees.

I crossed over to the bunk and touched his hand which lay limply on the coverlet, twitching occasionally.

"Watson."

A shaky intake of breath was the only noise to indicate he heard me and his eyes flickered.

"Watson, old fellow."

As though they bore the burden of Atlas himself, his eyelids slowly opened to reveal the familiar hazel orbs, I was shaken by how dim they were, bereft of the energy and spark they usually held, glazed and dull and inestimably weary.

The eyes of a dead man.

"Watson." I said softly, for if I spoke any louder I knew my voice would crack.

His eyes fixed on my face and I felt my heart rise a little when they shone with a light of recognition. His cracked lips formed my name but no sound emerged.

"I'm going Watson,"

A measure of life filled his face and his hand clenched round my wrist, his brows creased.

"Lachlan is here," I said quickly, "I am going to find Smith's associate. I will be back."

He glanced at Lachlan, who gave him a reassuring smile, and then his gaze settled back on my face.

"Promise?" His voice was a mere whisper, hoarse and thin.

"I promise." I said, gripping his hand tightly, feeling the back of my eyes burn. "You've had a bad night of it, Watson. But you'll feel better after a few hours rest, and Lachlan will help you to drink something."

He moaned at the thought of drinking again, but I pressed him and after a moment he nodded.

"Be careful."

I smiled for his benefit, for I felt no reason to be so joyful. "I will, and I'll be back to check on you. Hold on for a while longer, Watson."

The corners of his mouth twitched and he closed his eyes again. "Always."

I gave his hand one final squeeze and slipped my hand from his grasp, turning to Lachlan ready to argue.

To my surprise the obstinate glare had faded from the sailor's eyes, which had become rather over-bright, and not with his usual twinkle.

He handed me the keys to the brig, "I'll watch him."

Some semblance of comfort settled over me, for I knew that simple statement was worth another man's oath. I touched his shoulder briefly then strode from the room before the fear of leaving Watson settled over me.

I set my mind on the task before me, trying to sweep my emotions aside. It was a fruitless task.

I made my way swiftly to the brig, ignoring the masses of humanity about me and spoke quietly to the young man, Renie, that Lachlan had arranged to be on guard.

He unlocked the door for me, unaware that I had my own set of keys in my pocket.

"You sure you'll be all right, sir?" he asked. "You don't want me to come in with you?"

I shook my head. "Follow the Midshipman's orders - you remember them?"

He nodded eagerly and I was glad that the lad was either too young or too good-natured to question said orders.

"You won't be disturbed, sir."

I nodded my thanks and entered the dim room, only to be faced with the leering smile of Culverton Smith as he leaned against the bars of his cell door.

I had underestimated my own reaction, for I was assaulted by a surge of disgust and anger so strong that I barely restrained myself from undoing the lock and strangling him with my own hands.

"I thought I might see you here again, Mr. Holmes." he said. "Pray tell me, how is Doctor Watson?"

My control snapped and quicker than I have ever moved before I was at the bars of his cell and had a hold of his collar, pulling him sharply against the iron, his face quite satisfyingly startled.

I brought my face close to his and spoke in a voice calm and intense enough to send chills down my own spine.

"If he dies, Smith," I whispered, "then you shall not live to enjoy the remainder of this voyage. You will suffer as slowly and as painfully as he has, and I will stand by and watch you die."

I released him without another word and my words were enough to startle him into silence. He staggered back and I could feel his eyes on my back as I passed on to the cell that held his paid help.

"Mr. Gilchrist." I said, in the same calm voice.

The smaller man looked up, his eyes wide and terrified in the dim light.

"I have another question for you."

The fellow swallowed and, ignoring the disgusted look of his companion, spoke. "What?"

I took the keys from my pocket and held them aloft, his face turned white.

"Who is the man who hired you for Mr. Smith…and where can I find him?"

Gilchrist shot a look towards Smith's cell even though he could not see it from the angle of his prison.

"There was no one else. Mr. Smith hired us 'imself."

I sighed and let a reasoning tone creep into my voice.

"I am a busy man, Mr. Gilchrist. And I am very swiftly running out of time. Lies will only rob me of that valuable time. You would not lie to me, would you?"

The fellow opened his mouth hesitantly and was cut off by a shout coming from Smith's cell.

"Help him and you are a dead man, Gilchrist!"

I was strongly tempted to cross to the cell and teach Smith to keep his mouth shut, but I thought better of it. The other sailor remained on his bunk, seemingly indifferent to the whole proceedings.

I unlocked the cell and stepped inside. Gilchrist leapt back, shaking.

"I dunno…I dunno anything!"

I closed the door behind me and placed the key back in my pocket.

"You do, Mr. Gilchrist, and it is information that I intend to discover one way or another."

For a few hours I worked with the man, relentlessly cross-examining him rather than using actual violence, growling in his face - and after a long while he cracked, as so many others have done under the same pressure in the cells of Scotland Yard.

"Mr. John Brown he called himself. I dunno if it was 'is real name."

"What did he look like?"

"Tall cove, dressed nice like you, was a mite taller than Mr. Smith."

"Age?"

"Dunno, young, more a lad than anything else."

"Hair?"

"Brown, longish, like a student."

"Color of his eyes?"

"Didn't see."

"Is he armed?"

"He has a revolver."

"What is his cabin number?"

"224…a deck below yours."

I continued to scrutinize his face but I was confident that the answers were truthful for my questions had been rapid.

"Very good, Mr. Gilchrist…I shall talk with the captain and have you moved to another location, and if it turns out you are not lying then I will speak at your trial."

The man nodded, his face still white and scared, for throughout most of the episode Smith had screamed threats at the small man.

I turned away and strode back past the cell that held Smith.

I could not tell if he had heard us or not, but he glared like the devil himself, his baleful eyes seething his rage.

I turned my back on him and left the brig. I had to get back to Watson, just to check. Then I would find Mr. Brown and bring this shoddy business to an end.

_**Watson**_

"Thank you, Lachlan," I said, my throat by now so tight that I could only whisper hoarsely.

I could not ever recall in my life feeling so weak and so ill – my mind although sluggish was still screaming a warning to me that I was too dehydrated and that I was going to die if something did not happen…but I was too tired, too absolutely exhausted to care. How I wished for Holmes to come back!

The seaman set the water glass down on the tray on the table with a nod and glanced at his watch.

"What – what time do you have to – get back to your shift?" I asked, coughing a little and bracing myself for the pain sure to follow.

"Got 'bout a half-hour yet, Doctor. And don't you worry, I'm not leavin' ye here until Holmes comes back, shift or no shift," the man reassured me, tucking the blankets round me, for I was still shivering uncontrollably.

I closed my eyes tightly and curled up under the blankets as the muscle spasms hit once again, gripping two fistfuls of the covers in an effort to not vocalize the pain.

"Doctor, are you –"

Lachlan's voice was interrupted by the slamming of the stateroom door, and my eyes flew open to see Holmes's jubilant face.

"I've got him! Name and location of his stateroom!" he shouted, his haggard face nearly glowing with sudden excitement.

"Gilchrist talked then?" Lachlan asked eagerly.

Holmes nodded, fairly dancing about in his excitement as he crossed the room to kneel beside my bunk, looking at me worriedly.

"How are you feeling?"

"Like - like the devil," I whispered hoarsely, trying to manage a faint smile at the hope I could read in his pale face.

"Mr. Holmes, I have to be gettin' back to my shift," Lachlan said slowly.

Holmes's brow wrinkled as he looked up at the seaman, and he glanced back at me.

"I know that poses a problem if you are going to locate this JB chap," the sailor added, "but I cannot miss another shift – I'm on my last warning as it is."

Holmes glanced back at me, and I nodded weakly.

His black brows knitted in a bushy line, but there was no other option. I knew he would not leave me alone – in fact it would be dangerous to do so – and so we would simply have to wait until Lachlan were able to come back to stay with me.

"Very well," Holmes said quietly, getting up from the floor.

"I shall be off later tonight, Holmes – and I will be tryin' to work out a schedule with some o' the men so that I can be off-duty until this business has been seen through," the sailor replied, opening the stateroom door. "Oh, and I brought up an early luncheon for you, Holmes. And do a chap a favour, don't throw it out of the porthole again, eh?"

Holmes stared after the man as the door shut after him, and I would have smiled had the pain not started up once more, causing me to double over under the covers and clench my jaw to keep from crying out as the muscles in my body started to cramp up again.

My almost inaudible whimper had been heard, however, for Holmes was in an instant sitting on the edge of the bunk, gently patting my shoulder a little awkwardly.

"Easy, old fellow – just ride it out, that's it," I heard his soothing voice as I closed my eyes to wait until the spasms passed, feeling myself shake over and over violently as the pain ran its course.

Finally the convulsive pain abated for the moment, and I kept my eyes closed, going limp against the pillows, too weak to even move, almost too exhausted to breathe. I was still shivering, the movement restricting my breathing and making it rattle in my closed throat.

"Watson."

Much as I was so glad to have him here, I wanted nothing more at that moment than for him to go away and leave me in peace, I was just too tired.

"Watson, come on, you have to drink some more," his voice was soft but insistent.

When I refused to acknowledge him, his grasped me by the shoulders and turned me over, raising me to a sitting position despite my very weakened protests. I tried to turn away as he held the glass up to my lips but he caught hold of me and held me still with his free arm.

"Watson, you have to. I – I cannot let you become dehydrated," he said slowly, making sure the words registered in my disoriented mind, "Please do not make me watch that, Watson?"

The shaking of his voice brought my mind out of that horrible lethargy and I nodded weakly, realizing that I did indeed have to, for his sake if not my own. I took a breath and then tried to choke down a sip.

It felt wonderfully cool and soothing to my parched lips, but my throat rebelled and tried to close up, sending me clutching at the blankets as I choked and coughed, my throat now raw from the repeated torture it was going through. I tried to restrain a moan but was unsuccessful.

"Please, Holmes," I gasped as I tried to take a breath, "please – don't – "

I saw his eyes fill with pain as he shook his head regretfully.

"I am sorry, dear chap," he said softly, "but I cannot watch you die of dehydration – we are so close, Watson. You can't give up now, old fellow."

I did not even care anymore, all I wanted to do was sleep, for only then could I get any release from the pain.

"I – I can't," I whispered, trying to lie back on the pillows.

Holmes tightened his grip and pulled me upright again, and I moaned as the pain shot through my body once more.

"I am not going to let you die, Watson!" I heard him say fiercely. "Don't do this to me!"

The desperation in his voice somehow motivated me to obey, and I tried to concentrate as he held the glass determinedly up to my lips again. It was a very long fifteen minutes in which I finally managed to get it down before collapsing, limp with my efforts.

"S-sorry, Holmes…" I whispered weakly, trying to apologise, but he shushed me as soon as I had started.

"Shh, it's all right, my dear fellow. Rest now," he said gently, setting my shaking frame back down on the bunk and covering me warmly with the blankets.

"Holmes – you – you must eat – something," I whispered.

"I will sometime," he replied, tucking the blankets round me.

"No," I gasped, grasping at his hand weakly, "now – please – Holmes?"

He gripped my hand in a rather unsteady grasp.

"I – I can't rest – knowing – you're killing yourself," I managed to get the words out before the spasms started again

I clutched Holmes's hand convulsively, clenching my teeth and closing my eyes, a strangled cry of pain escaping me. I felt him sit beside me, putting his other strong arm round my shoulders and letting me cling to his other hand as the pain ran its course.

"I'm here, Watson. Concentrate, old fellow – easy now," he murmured shakily as I twisted, trying to relieve the spasms.

I took a long shuddering breath, holding onto him and his quiet strength, and I heard him talking to me, slowly and soothingly, something about some case we were on a few years back – trying to distract my attention from the pain. I could not move to answer, and I do not think he expected me to.

Finally the spasm passed and I took a breath slowly, feeling it strain in my throat, and looked up at him, noticing his absolutely ghastly face and the black circles under his eyes.

I coughed again, feeling his grip tighten as I did so, and then leant back, completely spent, wishing only for sleep.

"All right, Watson?" he asked quietly as I settled back beside him.

"Promise me – promise me something, Holmes," I whispered, feeling my eyelids growing heavy.

"Anything, old fellow," he replied without hesitation.

"Promise me – " I had to break off to gasp for a breath as it hitched in my throat.

His arm tightened again. "Yes?"

"Promise me – you'll eat – after I fall – asleep," I gasped, gripping his hand tightly for emphasis.

He looked at me for a moment and then the pain-filled grey gaze softened.

"Very well, if it will make you rest easier I shall, I promise," he said softly.

"Good," I whispered.

And as I finally felt myself drifting toward unconsciousness, I felt his strong arm tighten round me and trusted him to be there watching to make sure I did not suffocate in my sleep.

I was safe for the time being.


	37. Not to Yield

One equal temper of heroic hearts,  
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will  
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Alfred Tennyson "Ulysses"

Chapter 37: "Not to Yield"

_**Holmes**_

It was not until the next morning that Lachlan returned, for he had indeed worked out a schedule change with one of the other officers, giving him an entire day free so that I could find Brown and get the cure from him.

Watson had suffered through yet another fever that night, but unlike the previous two it had had little effect, spiking only mildly, as though his body was far too exhausted to even put up much of a fight. He remained still and quiet most of the time, alternately hot and cold and only conscious enough to concentrate when someone spoke to him.

And even then I was alarmed at the state he had sunken to; the exhaustion and dehydration were taking their toll, leaving him a sorry imitation of the Watson I knew.

I left him reluctantly, though I was eager to go after Brown, not because of Watson's fear but rather because of my own.

"You'd best not waste any time, Holmes," Lachlan had said quietly as I had tried to rouse my friend.

"Watson?"

There had been no response, his eyes remained closed and his chest barely rising and falling with each tiny shallow breath.

"Watson, can you hear me?" I repeated, trying to speak round the lump in my throat as I shook his shoulder gently.

His eyelids shivered and his brow furrowed slightly, but other than that he gave no response. I took his limp hand and tried to make my voice calm.

"Watson, I'm going after Brown," I said slowly and distinctly, leaning close to him and hoping he could hear my words at least. "I shall be back, I promise. Can you do something for me while I'm gone?"

I felt his hand clench slightly – he could hear me then.

"I want you to fight, Watson," I said shakily, "I know it is hard and I know you're tired – but you can't give up now, old fellow. We are too close to the end now. Do you understand?"

He moved slightly and moaned a little, gripping my hand again.

"You have to keep fighting, Watson," I went on intensely, "I – I need you to not give up on me. Can you do that?"

He had made no more movement, and his hand was ice cold and unresponsive; he had slipped back into unconsciousness again. I swallowed down the lump in my throat and placed his hand back under the blankets, pulling them up tightly round him. Then I turned to leave, very reluctantly.

I was terrified that he would slip away while I was gone, that he was giving up the fight and that I could not reach him any longer, that he would stop fighting and I would not be here when he did.

Were it not for Lachlan I would never have left him. The seaman put a strong hand upon my shoulder as I opened the door and nodded back to the motionless form of the dearest person I had in all the world.

"I won't let him give up, Holmes, I promise you that," he said through clenched teeth, "you just concentrate on the work to be done."

I felt my eyes sting but just as quickly gave myself a shake to collect my nerves before heading down to the corridor below to see this John Brown.

_**Lachlan**_

For an hour after Holmes left, I paced up and down the small stateroom in a troubled state indeed – the Doctor was sinking faster than even Smith had stated. We were suppose to have about 14 hours left by my reckoning, but the Doctor appeared to be only partly conscious.

That in itself was not good, for he could stop breathing at any time and not being conscious would not be able to tell me. I never took my eyes off him for a second as he struggled gallantly to fight this hellish thing.

I am not an emotionally-driven man, but at that moment in time I believe I could have killed Smith with my bare hands with no more compunction than if he were a rodent I found in my cupboards.

I suddenly sprang for the bunk as I saw the Doctor's chest stop rising for more than a moment, yanking him upright with more force than I had meant to in my panic.

"Don't you dare do this, Doctor! Breathe, NOW! Come on!"

_**Holmes**_

Cabin 224 was a small distance from ours, at the other end of the ship, near the crew's quarters. I wasted no time in locating it and rapping sharply on the clean, white wood.

There were slight sounds from inside and I waited a moment before rapping again.

A low voice muttered behind the door and light footsteps approached. Gilchrist was right, the man could not be over thirty, probably nearer to twenty.

"What do you want?" Came a young voice through the door, absolutely saturated with the accents of Oxford. A student then, just fresh out of university and short of money, an ideal man for Smith to hire.

"I have a proposition for you," I called back.

The door opened a crack and the instant it did I surged forward, shoving it open the rest of the way.

Brown, exactly as Gilchrist had described, stumbled backward, still gripping the handle.

He stared at me with a mixture of outrage and horror, for a moment I could not think why, then recalled that I had not slept, shaven, or changed for two nights now and I must look a right terror.

Good.

_**Lachlan**_

At the vehemence in my tone, the Doctor gave a small shuddering gasp and then his eyes flew open with an unfocused, frightened gaze. I let out my breath with a hiss and propped him upright – I was taking no chances, he was going to stay elevated.

I saw a faint gleam of recognition come into his face as he saw me, and then his eyes closed again. I wiped my perspiring forehead – blast it all, it was hot in here!

"Doctor, I'm going to give you some water now, all right?" I asked hesitantly.

His eyelids fluttered and he moved his head, which I took for assent. Even if not, he had to drink something or he would never last the day.

But I could not get him to sip anything from the cup – he was too weak by this point. I frowned.

Hang it all, I cared nothing for his pride. He was going to get it down even if I had to feed it to him with a spoon like a small child.

I rang for the steward.

_**Holmes**_

The lad straightened, pushing his disheveled brown locks back from his high forehead and straightening his dressing gown.

"Who are you, Sir?!"

Never could I remember feeling so detached and cool as I did at that moment. Watson has written in his memoirs that I can be frightening in such a cool state, and I believed I was for when I turned my cold, hard gaze on him Brown paled slightly and moved as though to step back.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes," I said. "And my proposition is this. You help me save the life of John Watson and you will not hang beside Culverton Smith…"

Brown met my gaze and his blue eyes wavered.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said in a voice that was meant to be cocky but held a perceptible edge of nervousness.

I stepped closer, and spoke as though I had not been interrupted.

"…And if he dies, then I will spend the remainder of my days and all my energy into proving you the accomplice of one of the greatest murderers in Britain. And you will hang, as the law demands."

_**Lachlan**_

It was taking very, very long to even get a bit of water down the sick man's throat, but I refused to give up, closed my ears to his pleading, and almost cruelly kept forcing that spoonful of water into his mouth despite his spluttering protests.

"I'm sorry, Doctor," I said, setting my jaw as he tried to turn away again, too weak now to ask me to stop, "but Holmes'll kill me if you give up the ship while he's gone. You're goin' to drink this, and you're goin' to drink it all, if I have to sit here until ten o'clock this evening and make sure you do!"

It had been an hour, and he had drunk maybe a fourth of a glass. Not good.

_**Holmes**_

Brown looked at the notes I had placed in his hands and they quivered. He raised a very white face indeed and I saw that he was taken aback - he had no doubt expected to get off scot-free.

"You can't prove…"

"Oh can't I, sir?" I cut him off. "There is nothing on this earth which I am more equipped to do."

The boy glared at me, his face flushing with a sudden spirit.

"If you are so certain that I am the only one who can help you, then you won't dare touch me."

A brief silence followed this statement and Brown watched me as though uncertain of the effect of his words.

"I have bested many men in my day, Mr. Brown, and I have made it my mission in life to hunt them tenaciously."

I glared at him, and fixed his gaze with my own steely one.

"Those men I hunted because they posed a threat to society. But you and Smith have overstepped those bounds. By harming Watson you have made an enemy of me in the worst possible way. I am not in the mood for bargaining, Brown. I am going against my nature in even allowing you the chance to redeem yourself. I would recommend that you do not try my patience. Because if Watson dies while you argue with me, then there will be nothing to keep me from settling with you tonight."

His gaze wavered but remained locked with my own, as though he were incapable of breaking it.

"Now."

I smiled at him and the lad shivered.

"What are the ingredients to Smith's cure, for the new disease he has been experimenting with that causes death by asphyxiation?"

_**Lachlan**_

I dropped the spoon as the Doctor choked, his breath hitching in his throat and not making it to his lungs. His eyes flew open wide in terror as I grabbed hold of him and began to talk to him as I had seen Holmes do countless times already, telling him to breathe, to slow down and concentrate.

My voice did not have the same effect that his friend's had, however, for it took me longer to get him to calm down, long enough that his face had turned dark red from lack of oxygen. When he finally gasped a tiny hiss of air and then another, at last getting his breathing regulated once again, I sighed with immense relief.

I gently settled him back on the pillows as I saw he was not even really conscious – the water would have to wait. At least he had gotten a glassful down before choking that badly. I certainly hoped for no more such spells as that one, for I was beginning to feel that I might not achieve the same results as Holmes in my talking to him.

As I began my pacing vigil again, I sent out a silent prayer for Holmes and that Brown chap to hurry.

_**Holmes**_

There was no one to watch us as we slipped into Smith's cabin, which thankfully had not been stripped of his equipment and makeshift laboratory.

"Everything we'll need is in here." Brown said.

"And you remember the remedy?"

He nodded. "Smith had me memorize them all….Sir."

I turned back from the various phials and testing tubes, puzzled by the new tone in his voice.

He was paler then I had seen him before.

"Sir…when he took me on…it was as a genuine assistant. I didn't know what he was up too. Not until this voyage. He…"

I daresay Watson would have felt for Brown, young as he was, but I cared not a whit at that moment.

I took hold of his arm and pulled him to the table.

"We will discuss your fate later, Brown, and the faster we accomplish this the more inclined I will be to listen to you."

He nodded and began to pull forward various marked bottles.

"The first solution is simple. That there is a clean vial, and the burner is just here…"

_**Lachlan**_

I poured myself a brandy and downed it absently, my eyes never leaving the motionless form of the sick man on the bunk. It had been three hours now since Holmes had left – I took that to mean he had found Brown in his cabin and had convinced him to give him the help he needed.

I thought back to the first time I had met the two of them, that night in their house in Baker Street just under a month ago. I could still see them both, laughing and bright-eyed on their return from what I assumed to be the theatre, since they had both been in formal dress. And very quickly I had found myself drawn to the kind of life they stood for in the path they had chosen against the evils of men such as Smith.

The Doctor _had_ to live to fight again beside his friend, he just simply had to. I doubted that the world could stand a loss like that, and I could tell for a fact that Holmes never would be able to bear it. He _must_ pull through, I mused as I looked down at the man in the bunk.

I laid a hand on the Doctor's forehead and cursed a blue streak – his fever was up again. Not dangerously up, but enough for him to be deucedly uncomfortable. I wet a cold cloth and placed it on the sufferer's forehead, and he stirred slightly with a small whimper that made me feel sick myself.

I fervently hoped that Brown was not being stubborn – we might be running out of time faster than Smith had told us.

_**Holmes**_

I shook my head, trying to flick the drops of sweat off of my brow. Both of my hands and all of my concentration was required in this next part, for if I made a mistake then the entire process would have to be started over, and we could not afford that after near on two hours of work.

I lifted the smaller phial and held it above the larger that held the growing solution. My hands trembled and I stopped, taking a moment to steady them. Behind me I could hear Brown breathing nervously, for his fate was as dependent upon this chemical mixture as Watson's was.

I proceeded, and heard a light clink as the lips of the phials touched. With agonizing slowness I tipped several drops in, hearing Brown draw in his breath behind me.

I breathed out in relief when the solution fizzled slightly and settled again. I handed the solution to Brown who replaced it on the burner and turned up the flame.

I leaned back against the table and wiped the back of my hand against my brow.

It was both a comfort and a curse to have to concentrate on such work, comforting because it was a familiar area, one in which I excelled. But it was taking too long and meant I had to be slow and meticulous, paying attention to every detail.

Brown grunted in satisfaction, his eyes fixed on the solution which was bubbling dully.

"Not long now, Mr. Holmes - just a few more steps."

"How long?" I asked nervously, glancing at my watch.

"An hour or so."

I breathed out shakily, wishing that I could trust Brown enough to finish so that I could check on my friend.

_A while longer, Watson…hold on, old fellow._

_**Lachlan**_

I stepped away from the bell, having rung for a bit of nourishment and some broth that I would try to feed to the sick man.

The doctor was listless, but at least he was breathing. I perched on the edge of his bunk and looked down at him, and his brow furrowed as he saw me, glancing past me round the room.

"Holmes? Where…" his rasping whisper was so weak I could barely hear it.

"He's gone for the cure, Doctor," I hastened to assure him, patting his shoulder firmly, "he's been gone near four hours, so I assume he's well on his way to having it with that Brown chap."

The Doctor frowned tiredly, almost as if he had not heard me, still glancing restlessly round the room.

"Did you hear me, Doctor?"

His clouded eyes turned slowly, wearily, back to me, and I could see the brightness of fever in them as he nodded slowly.

"You are losing water too quickly, Doctor, and Holmes will draw and quarter me if you don't drink some more," I said briskly, retrieving the water and preparing to give the sick man some.

"No…" he feebly tried to push my hand away, but I refused to be deterred.

"Doctor, look at me," I said firmly, getting close to his emaciated face.

His eyes fastened upon me once again, and a flicker of recognition once more shot through them and I believe he only then realized who I was.

"Lachlan…what…"

"Don't talk, Doctor," I admonished him, pushing him back to his half-sitting position with a small sense of relief. "Save yer strength – heaven knows you're goin' to need it before the day is through."

There was a rapping at the door and I called for the steward to enter – the young fellow was a personal friend and I knew he would not turn me in at this point for being in a passenger's stateroom. The lad came in bearing a tray and began to lay the things out upon the table.

Suddenly I felt a hand on my arm, clenching convulsively, and I snapped my head round to see the Doctor, grasping frantically for me – he had stopped breathing again and was trying desperately to cough and not getting any oxygen.

"Easy, Doctor! Slowly now – slowly man! Take it easy," I said in immediate concern, grasping his shoulders as he shook violently, trying to draw in a breath.

His eyes were wide with fright and he did not appear to be responding to me, convulsing desperately as his throat tried to open and no recognition in his face as he stared wide-eyed at me. I made a split-second decision.

"Jack – quick, lad, Cabin 74, on the next floor up – get Sherlock Holmes down here! And hurry!"

My young friend dropped the tray of dishes and dashed out of the stateroom as I turned my attention back to the Doctor, who was now grasping weakly at his throat as if trying to physically pry it open.

Mid-experiment or no, Holmes had to get down here, _now_.

_**Holmes**_

Brown and I leapt in startlement as the door to Smith's room burst open. Brown hastened to steady the beaker of liquid and I turned, expecting to see an outraged Lieutenant or Captain…but what I saw was much worse.

A dark-haired lad in a steward's uniform, panting for breath, his face white.

"Mr. Holmes! The Midshipman, he needs…"

I did not wait to hear the rest but put a hard hand on Brown's shoulder.

"Keep going – and for the love of heaven do not stop or your own life won't be worth a farthing – I shall see to it personally!"

Brown nodded vigorously, meeting my intense glare with a shaky look.

I turned and pelted from the room, the lad at my heels. It was not too far to the cabin but far enough, and I felt every inch of it, my heart pounding rapidly in my chest.

What was it? What was so bad that Lachlan could have…

I dashed through the open door and paused as I took in the scene before me.

Lachlan was bent over the convulsing form of my friend, gripping him with white-knuckled hands, pleading with him to breathe.

But Watson was not listening; his eyes were as glazed and uncomprehending as a wounded animal, his face was growing darker by the moment, and he struggled weakly in the seaman's grasp, no sound came from him

I moved without thinking, crossing the room in one bound, shoving Lachlan aside and taking my friend by the shoulders.

"WATSON! WATSON!"

I shook him slightly, but it had no effect, it was as though he could not, or would not, hear me. He was gripping his throat.

"Watson…look at me! It's Holmes!"

I shot a fearful look to Lachlan who stood beside me, his hands clenched and his face white, staring at Watson and me, looking lost for the first time since I had met him.

I let go my hold and took one of Watson's hands instead, prying it away from his throat. With an effort I quelled my own panic and forced myself to speak in a calm, steady voice.

"Watson."

I put my other hand on his forehead and pressed him back against the pillows in an effort to keep him still.

"Watson, please look at me. I need you, old chap."

His struggles were growing weaker, he was running out of air. I turned his head to face me, tried to meet his eyes with mine.

"Watson. It's Holmes."

With a shock his eyes locked with mine and froze.

"Holmes," I said again.

A spark of recognition lit in the hazel depths and fear followed quickly after, pleading for help without words.

"Breathe in, Watson."

His head moved, not quite a shake.

"Breathe in!"

His chest expanded with nothing, his eyes closed and his hand clenched in a painful grip on mine.

"Good, Watson, good!"

A harsh sound filled the cabin as air was dragged into his windpipe, Watson screwed up his face with the effort.

"That's it!"

He gasped and choked, the terrible color fled from his face, he began to shake again from his efforts, he took another breath.

I let my head droop and clutched his hand in both of mine, my head bowed over them in relief and fright.

"_Holmes?"_

His voice was hoarse and thin and fearful, utterly unrecognizable.

"Yes, Watson, I'm here."

He looked at me with a painfully weary gaze.

"_Can't…"_

"Yes, you can, Watson. We're almost done – it will not even be an hour. Do you hear me? Just a while longer…do you hear?!"

He whimpered and turned his head away, still clinging to my hand.

I detached it – and he did not object, which indicated his condition clearer than the fact that I had been about three seconds from losing him completely. I rose to my feet and met Lachlan's gaze, both relieved and fearful.

"Keep him alive, for an hour more."

The seaman nodded and I hurried from the room, my jaw clenched so hard my teeth hurt.


	38. The Devil

Chapter 38: "The Devil"

Between the devil and the deep blue sea: nautical term for being in a precarious position.

_**Holmes**_

I raced down the passageway, noticing that the wind was whipping up tremendously and the storm we had been running from the last few days apparently was about to break. I clutched the small phial in my pocket in an iron grip, knowing that this was our last hope – if I had made a mistake, then the cure would do no good for Watson and he would…

But I dared not think of it, for my mind was utterly unable to comprehend a world without him. I _could_ not think of it; it was unspeakable.

I reached the foot of the companionway and hurried as fast as I safely could while carrying the glass phial, reaching the door of our stateroom after what seemed like hours. I flung it open and the wind snapped it back against the back wall with a crash that made Lachlan jump nearly a foot into the air.

But my heart plummeted when Watson did not respond or move at all.

Lachlan slammed the door closed.

"Got it?"

"His bag, quickly – an empty syringe," I gasped, out of breath from my dash down the companionway.

Lachlan slammed the bag down onto the table and I pulled the phial from my pocket, praying silently that we had not made any errors in the formula. The seaman handed me a syringe and then went back to Watson.

"How is he?"

"Let's just thank heaven you are fifteen minutes early, Holmes," the sailor said, counting his pulse with a worried face.

"Any more breathing attacks?" I asked, taking a deep breath and holding it, closing my eyes for a moment to steady my nerve and my hands to measure out the cure into the syringe.

"No. Just has lain there unconscious for the last thirty minutes, since after you left," Lachlan replied, glancing at me as I rolled up Watson's sleeve and swabbed the area with a cotton ball soaked in alcohol.

"You – you're sure that's it?" he asked hesitantly, glancing at the syringe in my hand as it hovered over the arm of my dying friend.

"No," I whispered, "but I'm praying with everything in me that it is."

And I took a long breath, closed my eyes, and then opened them, carefully inserting the syringe into the proper place and depressing the plunger, sending the life-giving fluid coursing throughout Watson's bloodstream. I refilled the syringe and repeated the dosage.

"Brown said two doses now and one every four hours until he wakes up," I said, straightening up.

"Brown! Where is he?"

"In his cabin – I took his gun and so pulled the serpent's teeth. I told him to wait there until further notice or I would kill him," I said calmly, rolling Watson's sweat-soaked sleeve back down over his arm and glancing at his face, still twisted with pain even in unconsciousness.

"I'll go after him right now," Lachlan said, putting his jacket and hat on. I handed Lachlan the revolver I had taken from Smith's assistant.

"Thank you, Lachlan – for everything," I said sincerely, shaking the seaman by the hand.

"I'll be back soon as I have the bugger stowed safely in the brig," he promised, going out and shutting the door behind him.

I pulled up a chair and began to wait.

The minutes crawled by slower and slower as the time moved on – I could see no difference whatsoever in Watson's laboured breathing, in his low fever, or the slight twitching movements that occasionally worked their way through his limbs. I bit my lip and rested my head on my arms, which were folded across the back of the chair I was straddling, trying to keep my muddled emotions in check.

Suddenly the door burst open for the second time, the wind again slamming it against the wall.

"Holmes!"

I scrambled out of my chair.

"What is it, Lachlan!"

"Brown – he's dead, Holmes, beat over the head with a belaying pin, I'm guessing!" the seaman's eyes were wide.

I stared blankly.

"Brown – dead? I just saw him not a half hour ago!"

"That's of no consequence, Holmes. You do know what a belayin' pin is?"

I stared at the midshipman, completely puzzled.

"No, I am afraid I have no idea. What is it?"

A belayin' pin, Mr. Holmes, is the type of weapon the guards on board a ship use – like _the guards outside the brig_!"

But even before the words were out of his mouth, my rapid mind had already made the jump from Brown's death to the murderer.

Smith – he must have heard Gilchrist's confession to me and realized I would find Brown. He had broken out of the brig with the intent of stopping his assistant from aiding me and had now killed him.

He was loose, and we would have to find him all over again.

_**Lachlan**_

I realized at once what a belayin' pin meant – that devil had overpowered the guard at the brig and had broken out. Thank the stars I had taken young Renie off duty this morning, for I could not bear to have the lad's innocent blood on my hands.

But now Smith was loose! We were truly now between the devil and the deep blue sea – this was a worse spot than before! Smith had broken out to stop Brown from helping Holmes, and now…

But I shoved my thoughts aside on the instant as Holmes's legs wobbled and he would have crumpled had I not jumped for him – half-pulling, half-carrying him to the chair he had vacated.

The man had not slept in two nights, three days, and to my knowledge had only eaten one meal. Not to mention the emotional duress he was feeling was enough to kill a far stronger man than he. Added to all these the fact that for the last seven hours his friend's fate had rested solely in his hands with that cure, and you had one very exhausted and half-dead detective.

I handed him a glass of water, dashing a shot of brandy into it, and he gulped it down, a slight bit of color coming back to his pale, unshaven face.

I made a swift decision, for he was obviously in no frame of mind to do so.

"Stay here. The Doctor's revolver is on the dresser there. Lock the door, put a chair under the knob, and do not open it until I return," I stated firmly, heading for the door.

"Stop, Lachlan!"

"I will not, Holmes."

"But –"

I turned round and met his rather pitiful attempt at an icy glare with a steely glower of my own.

"Holmes, you are in no condition to be running about the ship. Especially in a storm like this. Leave this to us sailors – we're used to such things."

"But –"

"Besides, Holmes," I said quietly, "when the Doctor wakes up, he is going to need to see you and no one else. You have to be here for him."

I saw his face soften at that, and I could tell that he was even more exhausted than he let on for he did not argue any longer.

"Take no chances, Lachlan – Smith has already murdered hundreds of people; he will not hesitate at one more," Holmes told me unsteadily, "and Watson will kill me if anything happens to you!"

I chuckled. "Don't you worry, Holmes. Now lock this door and put a chair under the knob. And don't let anyone in here until I come back."

Holmes nodded wearily and after I shut the door I put my ear to it to listen and made sure he did as I asked, which he did. Then I left to call the alarm – not a widespread one for fear of panicking the passengers, but one to most of the crew.

We would have to turn the ship inside out, not an easy task in a storm. It was a real squall, a sea storm in earnest now, and the rain started to lash down upon me as I fought my way to the crew's quarters after going to the brig and finding that Smith had indeed managed an escape.

The guard had been knocked unconscious with his own belaying pin and Smith was gone. The bird had flown very neatly, I supposed by luring the guard close enough and then grabbing his pin and keys.

I had glanced into the next cell to see that Gilchrist and the other sailor were both in there – they had heard a commotion but had no idea what had gone on, since they could not see Smith's cell from that angle.

Now, as I raced across the slippery deck, I saw Renie and sent him for three strong lads to guard the brig, for Smith might try to come back and finish Gilchrist for talking to Holmes.

Then I rounded up a half dozen lads I knew I could trust and told them of the situation. When one voiced a protest about starting a manhunt without the captain's permission, my nerve snapped at last. It had been an entirely too long day – and it was only a little after five!

"McGregor, a mass murderer is loose on this ship, and we are going to find him! I shall take full responsibility for the operation, but get moving before I have you strung up to the highest yardarm – now shove off, all of you!"

I assigned two men to each deck and told them to sweep any area for Smith. Then I went up myself and checked Smith's cabin, fighting my way against the raging wind and the lashing rain.

A huge clap of thunder boomed almost at the same instant as a brilliant flash of lightning that illuminated the sky in every direction – the storm was extremely close. Even though it was only late afternoon, it was dark enough to give the illusion of midnight.

He was not in the cabin. I stood for a moment looking at the chemical equipment still spread everywhere that Holmes had left in his hasty flight with the cure and hoped desperately that the formula would not have been too late for the Doctor.

Wait.

I was a fool.

I was a stupid fool!

Smith had broken out to stop Brown from helping Holmes – but he had been too late and killed him because he helped Holmes. Smith then had to have known that Holmes had gotten the information out of Brown and that now the detective had made the cure…

_And I had left them completely unguarded downstairs!_

I made a dash for the nearest companionway, hoping I would reach them before Smith found a way into the Doctor's stateroom – the man was mad now with a bloodlust for revenge and I doubted anything would stand in his way.

_**Holmes**_

I did as Lachlan instructed and then returned to my position on the chair beside the bed, the gun near at hand, straddling the chair.

It would work.

It had to work.

_God, let it work._

We had been through a good many difficulties, Watson and I, and many had ended with one or the other of us the worse for wear.

But never like this.

I had never had to sit by and watch while my friend was slowly killed by a debilitating disease.

No. A strong voice sounded in my head.

_You _hadn't

I felt a sudden flush of guilt.

But Watson had.

Was this the effect my illness had had on him the last time, this terrible, relentless anxiety that ate at me from the inside out? This helplessness?

I lowered my head into my hands and dug my fingers into my hair.

Oh, heavens…what had I done?

How could I have been so careless as to inflict him with the same sickening fear that I now felt? If he came through this, I would never do such a thing again, I vowed it on my word of honour.

If he pulled through this…

No…when.

_When_ he pulled through.

He _had_ to pull through.

I reached out and gripped my friend's cold hand as if clinging to it would keep him there. I had not really allowed myself to contemplate what life would be like without his steady presence by my side.

I had already spent three years away from London, Britain, and everything familiar - most of all him, my closest friend. Was I really to lose him when I had only just come back and finally set everything to rights?

I had never planned on having a good friend in my life; when I had first met Watson I had been quite content with my puzzles and cases, reveling in the powers and cold detachment of my mind. I had seen Watson only as an opportunity to help with the rent money, nothing more. I had not even planned on sharing a flat with him for long.

And yet, I had become friends with this man. Friends in the truest sense of the word, I could not imagine life without my staunch Boswell at my side, I could not go back to the life I had originally planned on, one which now seemed empty and without purpose due to his influence. He had penetrated my shields despite all efforts to block him out, and I would be forever grateful to him for that.

However maudlin or cliché the idea, Watson was indeed a man I would give my life for, one I trusted above all others.

My port in a storm as it were.

I snorted at my own word choice - Watson's idealistic phrases were creeping into my vocabulary. I should never have read his stories in the _Strand_.

A laugh rose and died in my throat.

I looked at the exceedingly still form of my friend on the bunk, bundled in blankets, his face sallow and lined with tension, his chest barely rising.

His brows were creased and there was a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. But there was no outward sign that he was aware of anything at all.

I laid my free hand on his forehead; he was still feverish, but it was not rising. There was no change.

"Watson," I said softly, my lone voice sounding strange in the empty cabin, nearly drowned out by the sounds of the storm raging outside the window.

I tightened my grip on his hand, hoping more than anything that I would feel a responding grip, that his sunken eyes would flicker.

But there was nothing, only the weak pulse in his wrist

"Watson?"

If there really was such a thing as a longest night then this was mine. A vigil in which I had done all I could and could do no more. In which, for the first time in my life, I was helpless.

I could do nothing but sit by and watch.

It was out of my hands; whether there was a God or not, the decision was no longer mine. And it wasn't fair! Watson was more mine than anyone else's, and I should decide what should happen to him.

Heaven, I did not want to lose him - weakness, crutch, comfort, friend, whatever Watson had become to me, I did not want to lose him. And I did not care what it would cost, what effect it would have on the rest of my life.

_Please,_ I thought, whether to the fates, the empty air, or Watson himself I did not know. _I don't want to lose him._

_**Lachlan**_

I reached the second level, stopping abruptly in my headlong rush, panting. It was empty, bereft of all but me and the shadows and the darkened doorways.

Was I mistaken? Had Smith instead gone back to the brig to finish off Gilchrist?

No, they were small fish compared to Holmes and the Doctor. Smith would come here; he had nowhere else to go, no other purpose he wished to accomplish so badly. I felt a brief pang of terror as I suddenly realized that he might have been here already, he might have gotten in.

I hurried down the passage towards the Doctor's cabin, only to slow to a walk as I saw that it was still closed and showed no signs of forced entry.

I stopped before it, almost at a loss. I was so certain Smith would have been here…where else would he go?

I turned, intending to go back the way I had come…and saw just in time the small, dark form of a man darting out from one of the alcoves leading to the cabins.

I reached for Brown's gun clumsily, as I was not used to handling firearms. I was too slow, Smith was darting past, I gave up the gun and reached for him, only to curse and stumble aside as something blunt and heavy smashed into my forearm.

I recovered my footing in time to see him making for the end of the hall, lightning flashed outside in the gale, lighting up the dim corridor. For a moment I got a good look at his craggy face and large forehead, his expression twisting his face into a mask of rage. Then he was gone around the corner, up the companionway.

I struggled to my feet as the ship bobbed slightly, throwing out my arms in an effort to steady myself.

I cursed again and bit my tongue as a sharp pain ran up my right hand, the one he had struck.

He had hit it with the belaying pin! There was something wrong, no blood or broken skin, but a constant dull ache.…but I had not time to deal with it. I shoved the offending limb into my jacket and struggled to my feet, using my left arm for support.

Then I pounded after Smith, the opposite of the way I had come, and made my way cautiously up the causeway, my eyes on the lookout for more dangerous shadows.

The storm seemed only to have heightened, and I was hard put to see or hear much in the thick curtain of rain and the howling wind.

Another bit of lightening forked through the air, illuminating the deck and surrounding sea with an eerie glow that made me shiver. For a sailor I am not a superstitious man, but I had inevitably heard a great many ghost stories, and this was not a night to be out tempting fate.

In the light I was able to make out two of the sailors sweeping the front half of the deck, just left of the wireless office…and there on the right the thin figure of Smith vanishing as the darkness descended again.

I bolted as quickly as I was able across the sodden wood and swore as I skidded. Why did everything have to be so cursed polished on passenger lines?

Waves tossed themselves up over the side of the ship, further hampering me and soaking me where the rain had not. Rain stung in my eyes and painfully pelted my face, which I had long ago thought was weathered against such things. There was not an inch of me, exposed or no, that was not rapidly growing numb.

A crack of thunder followed the lightning, further deafening me, but I continued to make my way across the deck, trying to keep my footing.

At last I made the front half of the ship and peered about me in the darkness.

I straightened and pulled the revolver from my pocket.

"SMITH!" I shouted over the screaming wind, trying to make myself heard.

"YOU HAVE NOWHERE TO RUN SMITH! NOT ON THIS SHIP!"

My comments provoked no answer and I scanned the deck again, trying to make sense of the shadows.

I could dimly make out the lantern of the other searchers; they had not heard me either above the wind, for they went on without a pause. I sighed - they had missed him entirely, this bunch were shoddy sailors indeed.

Surely Smith himself could not stand much more of this storm.

I strode forward a few paces and raised my voice again. "SMITH!"

Never in my life have I been more surprised than at that moment, as this time I was met with an answering howl of rage that might have been mistaken for more of the storm that howled about us.

He ran straight at me, appearing as though from the depths of the abyss, the belaying pin held aloft in his hands, I raised the revolver to fire, but my spot was spoiled by a second flash of lightning and a resounding crack of thunder, growing ever closer.

An instant too late I realized that I was not prepared for his attack, and then he was on me.

Another sharp pang ran through my left shoulder as the pin struck it. I shouted and ducked another wild swing from Smith. The man was no fighter.

I struck one of my fists into his stomach, and he staggered back, holding it, and then ran at me again, this time knocking me back as I clutched at him, trying to pull him off.

He had a wiry strength born of hatred and desperation, and I was hard put to detach him. He drove us backward into the railing separating the upper half of the deck from the lower.

I grunted as I was brought up against the hard metal, then twisted to my left. Smith shouted and his grip tightened, pulling me with him as he stumbled and I felt my heart leap into my throat as I suddenly felt nothing but empty air beneath my feet. I had sent us directly into the set of stairs that connected the decks!

We crashed down it, losing hold of each other as we did, I struck painfully on several steps, lost myself to a sense of vertigo, then fell flat onto the slippery polished surface of the deck below.

I must have helped to cushion Smith's fall for as I lay with my spinning head and aching body he came upon me again, wrapping thin, strong hands about my head raising it and trying to crush it down onto the hard wood.

His foot dug into my chest, restricting my breathing. I growled and seized his own head, trying to force him away. His hands latched onto my throat instead and I could hear his desperate breathing as he sought a way to crush my throat.

I could not get him to let go his hold - his strong, sinewy fingers pried at my throat and between him and the rain I was becoming half suffocated.

It was a sad and desperate thing to see, this man who had clung so doggedly to life, only in the pursuit of destroying others.

Not a man, a cold heartless thing, with as little compassion as the sea and the storm raging about us, a creature that, by placing himself apart from humanity had ceased to be a man.

A coldness that I have rarely felt rose within me, and with it a rage. I gripped Smith tightly between my hands and as he continued to thrash and scrabble at my throat I twisted sharply.

The snap of his neck was lost in the sound of the crashing waves and I felt him go rigid for a moment before falling limply to the side as I released him. I rolled away, coming to my knees and clutching my abused throat.

Once again the sky lit with a streak of lightning, illuminating the ship and the living, thrashing waves…and the lifeless, staring face of the corpse who had been the murderer, Culverton Smith.


	39. Our Fearful Trip is Done

O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;

The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won;

Walt Whitman (1819–1892).

Chapter 39: "Our Fearful Trip is Done"

_**Holmes**_

After an hour I took Watson's temperature the best I could with my limited knowledge – and it appeared to be hovering round 99.5 degrees, slightly lower than before. But that did not mean that he was improving, for the fever fluctuated.

I dropped the thermometer back into the bag and turned the gas up a little higher – it was almost pitch-black outside even though it was only evening. I had rarely heard such a gale as was screaming outside the porthole now, the waves crashing and the rain pelting the small window as the storm renewed its furious assault on the ship.

I took Watson's icy, unresponsive hand and began to talk softly – perhaps he could hear me even if he was unable to respond. I had to do something at any rate or I should go mad from waiting.

For over an hour I talked about anything and everything that came into my mind – past cases, my brother, my childhood, our first meeting, my Hiatus – anything I could think of. But all throughout there was no change, no indication that he heard me at all.

I had given him the second dosage of the cure a little while ago and had entertained some fond hope that he would soon make a recovery – but there was still no response.

"Watson?" I shook his shoulder lightly, frustrated in the extreme that my voice cracked as I spoke.

The only sound in the cabin was the slow, shallow rising and falling of his laboured breathing – nothing else.

I let out my breath with a long shudder, grasping his hand again and leaning over to rest my elbow on the bed and my chin in my cupped hand. I was so tired.

What would I do if he did not pull through this? How could I possibly go on living?

The terrible thought ran through my mind that Watson had already had to suffer that kind of a loss – and now more than ever I realized what harm I had done by not informing him of my survival at Reichenbach. If he had felt even a fraction of what I was feeling now, then I was undoubtedly the most heartless fiend in the world to have made him suffer like that for three years.

And now – I might not even get a chance to fully make things right after what I did. Now…

But I dared not think of it, it could not be true. He was strong, and I had made the cure – he would make it.

He had to.

_**Watson**_

This adventure I believe more than tripled my dislike for the sea and water in general. All I wanted to do was sleep, and that confounded storm outside was not making it easy to remain comfortable.

Wait – the storm? What storm?

My mind was barely moving, like a sluggish train engine attempting to start a hundred-car freight line, moving slowly and not even noticeably. I realized that I was warm, for the first time in – how long had it been? – in quite a while. Warm, and almost cozy, wrapped up in something very soft and inviting.

So snug was I that I was loathe to come back to full consciousness, but something kept pricking at the back of my mind, something I could not remember at the moment, something…

Wait – I was supposed to be dying! Why was I comfortable then? For the last three days every waking moment had been filled with pain of an intensity I had never felt before. But now – now there was no pain, not even much discomfort. My limbs ached slightly, but they were not tightening and cramping as they had been.

I heard a loud clap of thunder, and the sound jerked me a little further out of the haze surrounding my mind. Then I was suddenly aware of the most blessed thing of all.

I could breathe!

My throat no longer felt as if it were being tightly squeezed shut, I could draw a long deep breath without coughing, and my lungs were able to keep up and regulate it strongly. I was no longer fighting to breathe!

My elation was so great that it woke me fully, and I opened my eyes to see the gas lit and lightning flashing outside my porthole – it appeared to be the middle of the night. I was nestled snugly on my bunk, cocooned in blankets and pillows.

Then my gaze fell beside me as I realized one of my hands was confined in some way, and I smiled softly, feeling my parched lips crack in protest.

Sherlock Holmes had fallen fast asleep with his head and arms on the edge of my bunk, legs splayed out in front of him and his head pillowed on his thin elbow, almost as if he had fallen sideways in his chair with sheer exhaustion. My right hand was clutched in his, the grip still firm even in sleep.

He must have done it – he had found the cure and given it to me…when was it? I could not remember much of the past few hours, or was it days? – other than the pain and the inability to breathe. And now his body had finally shut itself down despite what I knew had to have been vigorous protests – that meant he had done it.

I struggled to sit up a little but felt that familiar weakness – no doubt from a lack of food and water for three days and having to fight off whatever Smith had infected me with. I closed my eyes for a moment instead, trying to find my strength; for I was feeling contentedly drowsy again, just enjoying being able to take deep breaths for the first time in I did not know how long.

Finally I opened my leaden eyelids again and tightened my hand round Holmes's.

He snapped awake on the instant, his head whipping up with such force I was afraid his neck would snap. And I was very much disheartened to see the darkness of the circles under his hollow, sleepy eyes and the general weariness of his tense face.

But when he saw that I was awake and looking at him, such a light of pure joy flooded his features that his whole face seemed to glow in a rare display of intense emotion. In an instant he had scrambled up onto the edge of the bunk beside me and was facing me, his tired eyes scanning my face eagerly.

"Watson! How do you feel, old fellow?" he asked, and I noticed that his voice was rather shaky.

"I – I can breathe, Holmes," I said, and I was surprised at the hoarse whisper that was all that remained of my voice at the moment, rough from abuse, "and – there is no pain."

I managed a smile as his face lit up with pure relief and happiness.

"Thank God, Watson!"

I heard the fervent prayer only a second before he startled me eternally by grabbing my shoulders intensely and almost violently yanking me close to him in a crushing embrace.

Needless to say, I was stunned – how close to death had I really come, if Sherlock Holmes could forget himself in such a manner? He was more troubled than I had ever seen him, and his grip was almost painful, so tight it was.

The arms that held me were shaking violently, and I uncertainly patted his thin shoulder as he trembled silently for a moment, obviously pulling himself together from his unheard-of emotional outburst.

Finally his grip loosened, and he hastily released me, his thin white face flushing as if ashamed of dropping his guard in that fashion, and he settled me gently back on the bunk, propped up with several pillows.

Then he turned his back on me to pour a glass of water, and it took no great deduction to see that he took rather a long time doing so, obviously pulling his emotions under a tight rein once again before he turned round to me again.

And when he did, that mask had dropped once more over his worn face – all except his eyes, which were still dimmed with either relief or joy. I could have smiled at his ridiculous façade of coldness that he so insistently cherished. I knew my Holmes better than that.

Holmes handed me the glass with a quirked eyebrow, obviously asking if I needed aid, and I grinned and downed it slowly, reveling in the very pleasures of drinking more than a sip at a time without choking and the coolness of the liquid on my parched lips and throat.

His face broke into a wide smile as he refilled the glass and handed it back to me without a word. I emptied it as well, handing it back to him, and he tossed it carelessly onto the table, hopping up onto the bunk beside me with an air of excitement that was contagious.

"By all that's holy, it is good to see you looking more yourself, Watson!" he exclaimed suddenly, wriggling into a sitting position at the other end of the bunk and grinning at me, drawing his knees up to his chest and resting his chin on them.

"Yes, well, it's rather good to bealive," I replied, returning the grin with one of my own.

I leaned back against the pillows, feeling that weariness taking over me again, and burrowed down into the blankets he had put round me whilst I was ill.

"You're sure you're feeling all right?" he asked, his eyebrows meeting in a thick black line.

"Quite sure," I said wishing my voice were not so hoarse, "just tired, that's all, Holmes."

He sighed with relief and leant his head back wearily against the wall of the cabin.

"You found Brown then?" I asked after a moment had passed.

He glanced back at me.

"You heard me then, telling you about it?" he asked.

I wrinkled my forehead in concentration.

"Vaguely," I admitted, for the memories were still rather hazy – I mostly only remembered choking and suffocating time and time again.

Holmes gave me a swift detailing of how he had persuaded Brown to help him and how they had found the cure for me with only a few hours to spare.

His voice cracked but did not break as he hastily skipped over the details of that last breathing attack – that one I could remember all too well. Had his voice and those intense eyes not made it through to me, I might never have found my way back from the path upon which I was wandering in my panic.

I was overcome with remorse at the thought of what Holmes had had to go through these last three days – his haggard face and exhausted manner were testimony enough to how strenuous the time had been, and I could tell he had been very badly shaken by my near brush with death, so much so that he had been absolutely terrified.

"Holmes," I said hesitantly as he paused in his narrative.

He glanced up at me and quirked an eyebrow, and the levity left my face and manner as I answered his unspoken question.

"I – I don't remember much," I said, trying to think, "but I do remember many times – you were the only thing that kept from giving up, the only thing that kept me breathing, Holmes."

His eyes filled with what I assumed to be pain at the recollections.

"You kept me alive, Holmes," I said softly, remembering the bits and pieces of the last three days' horror, "I never would have made it alone, I – I'm not strong enough."

Holmes fiddled nervously with his cufflinks.

"To use those romantic sea analogies you and our sailor friend are so fond of adopting, Watson, a captain cannot pilot a vessel into harbor during a storm without a lighthouse to guide him," my friend said slowly, sounding very much unlike his normal unromantic self.

I felt my mouth twitch in a smile.

"And once there, he needs an anchor to tie his ship to the safety of home and harbor," I added softly.

My friend set his chin upon his knees, looking off into space for several moments, and then he got up and got me another glass of water, telling me I had nearly died of dehydration and I had to keep drinking fluids.

"May I remind you that _I_ am the doctor?" I replied with a smile as I took the glass.

A brilliant flash of lightning outlined the room and everything in it with an unreal starkness, and a huge clap of thunder smothered his reply. He took the emptied glass from me and then collapsed into the chair beside my bed, his brow furrowed in obvious thought.

"What's the matter, old fellow?" I asked, turning onto my side to look at him.

"I – must apologise again to you, Watson," he said slowly, looking at me with a troubled gaze.

"Whatever for?"

"For originally deceiving you with Smith, and again to deceive you about my death." He stopped, swallowed, and started again. "This – business, has shown me how perfectly heartless I had to have been. I – I had no idea – I didn't know –"

I reached over and grasped his trembling hand.

"It is all in the past, Holmes – there is nothing to discuss," I said quietly.

Heaven knew he had been fully to blame for his three-year deception, but I had the feeling that he had more than paid for his lapse in judgment in the last three days. There was no sense in dredging up the past for either of us.

His grey eyes raised to meet mine, and I met his questioning look with a smile, wordlessly telling him that all was forgiven as always.

"I am hungry, Holmes," I suddenly and completely randomly changed the subject.

As I had anticipated, the abrupt topic switch made him give a startled chuckle.

"As soon as Lachlan comes back with the all-clear signal, I shall get you anything you want to eat, my dear fellow," he said with a grin.

"The all-clear signal?" I asked, puzzled.

Holmes's eyes clouded over with sudden foreboding.

"I had not meant to tell you –"

"Tell me what?"

He hesitated before continuing.

"Smith escaped just after Brown and I made the cure," he said slowly, "I sent Brown back to his cabin and rushed down here. Fifteen minutes later Lachlan went to fetch Brown and discovered that he had been killed; Smith had escaped from the brig and had gone after his assistant."

I felt my eyes widen.

"Then – then he's loose on the ship?" I gasped.

The thunder rolled again outside the stateroom, rain beating a steady tattoo on the small pane of glass.

Holmes nodded.

"Lachlan took Brown's gun and was going to start a search party for him. He will find him, Watson, he promised me he would."

"I do not doubt his promise – but what if Smith finds him first?" I asked worriedly.

Holmes settled down again opposite me on the bunk and patted my arm comfortingly.

"Lachlan is no fool, Watson – I have complete faith in him, and so should you," he said softly, straightening out the tangled covers round me.

I sighed wearily – the blankets felt so inviting, beckoning me back to sleep.

"Holmes?" I murmured as he sat back against the wall.

"Yes, my dear fellow?"

"You – you need to sleep too," I said, opening my heavy eyelids.

"I shall – but I cannot leave this cabin until Lachlan returns," he replied.

"Then you will just need to nap here – I don't want you collapsing until I'm well enough to care for you," I said, glancing sleepily at him. "Here."

I yanked one of the pillows from behind my head and tossed it at him mischievously, hitting him in the face. He batted it away with a startled glare at me. I smirked and settled down cozily under the blankets, closing my eyes.

Only to feel a soft _whump_ followed by the sound of a suppressed chortle a moment later as he tossed the offending pillow back at my head.

"You – are – a – child, Holmes!" I muttered, not even opening my eyes.

But I was completely unable to keep the wide grin off my face, and judging from the repressed snickering coming from the other end of the bunk, neither could he.

_**Lachlan**_

I placed McGregor in charge of removing the body and I paused only long enough to change into dry clothes before hurrying back up to the Doctor's cabin.

The door was closed as per my instructions and I knocked on it loudly.

"Holmes."

I heard footsteps and then a pause.

"It's Lachlan," I continued, pleased that the detective remained this cautious, but rather frustrated for I was becoming wetter the longer I stood outside. "Open the bloody door, mate!"

There was an exclamation and the door was opened to reveal a very haggard but very exuberant Holmes.

I frowned, puzzled, and pushed my way in.

Something soft and fluffy struck me suddenly in the face and I staggered back, spluttering.

I flung the offending object away and glared at it as it landed on the floor.

A pillow?

I glanced at Holmes, who stood with a deadpan face, the corners of his mouth twitching as though unable to keep a smile at bay.

I followed his gaze and saw the Doctor, his eyes open and alert, pale and drawn, and looking exceedingly exhausted.

But awake.

And more importantly – alive.

He smiled sheepishly and spoke in a weak, hoarse voice.

"Do forgive me, Lachlan – I was aiming for Holmes."

I looked to Holmes who was grinning outright now, and did not appear at all upset by the idea of the Doctor hitting him with a pillow.

I sighed inwardly…a pillow.

Whether it was my own relief at seeing the Doctor well at last, or the absurdity of the situation I cannot tell, but at once I felt lighthearted and was smiling as if the expression itself were contagious.

I bent and picked up the pillow. "'S no trouble, Doctor…we can remedy that."

And I chucked it directly at the unsuspecting detective.

The doctor dissolved into a weak peal of laughter as Holmes yelped and ducked behind the closest chair, and the welcome sound brought an even wider smile to my face. He really was all right!

_**Holmes**_

"You caught Smith." I said, settling in the chair beside Watson's bed once more and trying to regain some vestige of my dignity.

Lachlan paused in his act of returning the pillows to their proper position behind Watson's head, glanced at me, and then finished his task before leaning casually against the wall. Watson let himself fall back into the cushions with a grateful sigh.

"In a manner of speakin', Holmes."

I frowned.

Lachlan opened his mouth to reply and moved to stick his hands into his pockets as he always did when he was nervous. Partway through the motion, however, he hissed and pulled his right hand up sharply, cradling it with his left.

Watson shifted to a higher position and fixed him with a frown of his own.

"You're hurt?"

"No, 'tis nothing" Lachlan said, attempting to hide the offending limb. "'S just a sprain, Doctor, nothin' more."

"You'll need to get that looked at," Watson said, his face concerned.

Lachlan looked at me. "He never stops, does he?"

I shook my head, smiling.

"He is a stickler for the health of others. Lie down, Watson, old fellow, you're too weak to tend yourself, let alone anyone else."

I waited until Watson had obeyed before fixing my gaze once more upon the hesitant midshipman.

"He's dead?"

Lachlan nodded, "Aye."

"Did you kill him?"

Again the sailor hesitated.

"My dear Lachlan, it is not a difficult thing to deduce; judging from your injuries it is evident that you were in close contact with Smith, for it is not just your wrist that is hurt but your shoulder - and both injuries must have been from a heavy blunt instrument such as a belaying pin."

I smiled at Watson who was watching with mild, sleepy interest.

"I'm surprised you didn't notice the shoulder, Watson - you're slipping."

My friend snorted but said nothing and I turned back to Lachlan, who was gazing at me uncertainly.

"Well?" he asked.

I sat back in my chair.

"Well what?"

"Does this not tell you anythin'? In a close struggle I would have been more than a match for Smith - I cannot claim that the act was done fully in self-defense."

I raised my eyebrows and fixed the seaman with a pointed stare.

"I beg to differ."

"Pardon?"

I motioned Lachlan to pull up a chair, which he did with his left hand and sat, his fair brows set in a puzzled knot.

"You are an honest man, Lachlan, you have shown that time and again throughout this case, and you yourself have admitted as much. What is more, is you have spent the entirety of this case and this voyage in a effort not only to avenge the deaths of many friends and associates but also to protect the passengers and crew of this ship, including Watson and myself. I would hope you number us among your friends, and the defense of a friend is the same as defense of one's self…at least in my book. Wouldn't you agree, Watson?"

The good Doctor nodded sleepily, his eyes closed.

"Sound reasoning, Holmes," he murmured.

I shrugged nonchalantly at the seaman.

"There you have it, Lachlan; there is no man more qualified to judge than Watson and if he proclaims you innocent that is enough for me. I would say that you acted very much in self-defense. And you have provided invaluable assistance throughout this affair."

Lachlan was smiling by this time, the familiar blue twinkle firmly in place.

"Well, I'm not one to argue with the world's greatest detective…at least not in this matter. I will say however that you need to get some sleep or your goin' to pitch headlong off somethin' sooner rather than later."

I returned the smile. "I agree - but Watson did say he was rather hungry."

"No, he's asleep."

I spun my head to look at my Boswell and saw that he had fallen limply back into his pillows, his soft snores filling the room.

He had always slept rather heavily.

Lachlan rose from his seat and rather reluctantly I followed suit, pulling the covers up to Watson's chin, allowing my hands to rest on his shoulders for a moment to assure myself of his deep and untroubled breathing. For the first time in three days my friend's face remained peaceful and undisturbed.

I turned to leave the room and stumbled as a slight dizzy spell hit me, only to be caught and steadied by the strong left hand of the midshipman.

"I told you so," he said in a smug undertone.

I returned his smirk and cast one glance back at the bunk to reassure myself once more that all was well with Watson.

Then quietly we slipped from the room, turning down the gas as we did.


	40. Epilogue

Epilogue

_**Holmes **_

"Well, it's not too bad," Watson scrutinized the cast, "could have been thicker, though."

Lachlan sighed in exasperation, his arm outstretched.

"Pierce is a qualified physician, Doctor."

Watson glared at the seaman.

"Yes, I met him briefly. Far too young if you ask me."

I snorted. "No younger than you where when you went to Afghanistan."

Watson was busy digging in his bag and did not bother to meet my gaze.

"Younger in other ways, then…roll up your sleeve, Lachlan."

The midshipman scowled.

"It's not necessary Doctor, I'm used to such thin…" he trailed off at Watson's look and pulled up his sleeve clumsily with his left hand. Watson smoothly inserted the syringe.

"It's just a mild dose of morphine - enough to take the edge off."

He repacked his bag and moved to pull on his jacket. His hands shook slightly and I took it from him, holding it out so that he could slip it on more easily.

He nodded his thanks and I moved to pick up his bag along with several other pieces of luggage before he could get to them.

"Holmes…can I at least…"

"No." I said sternly, "just concentrate on keeping your feet, Watson. Four days of rest does not mean you are recovered."

During the four days since Watson had regained consciousness I had kept what he had called an 'annoyingly close eye' on him. I could not help it, for I still shuddered even as I thought of the terrible stillness that had settled over him that last day.

Had I not discovered Brown, there would have been no recovery, no help from any quarter. Even my telegram to Ainstree had been intercepted by Smith's man in the telegraph office, who was now under lock and key with the sailors in the brig for his part in the drama.

Lachlan grinned at my friend's frown and slung his own bag over his one good shoulder, picking up the remainder of our luggage himself with his good hand.

"We'd better be gettin' up to the deck gents."

"How did your meeting with the captain go?" Watson asked.

The midshipman looked over his shoulder on the way out of the cabin.

"Not pleasantly."

My friend looked chagrined and Lachlan nodded.

"He wasn't too pleased to discover that I was, as he put it, Mr. Holmes's 'agent' – not only canceled my contract but threatened to have my rank stripped. Gave me a stern lecture on attending to duty and keeping out of others' affairs. He seemed to forget that this whole thing should have been his affair. As it is I won't be findin' any jobs with any prestigious lines."

"If it helps, Lachlan, then I don't intend…" Watson began but the sailor cut him to the chase.

"Oh, publish as you like, Doctor, and welcome, your stories are not the only method of communication. Word of this will get out, not only in Britain and the Lansing line but in every port from here to Australia. Smith was not unknown in the 'uncivilized world'."

We had made our way up to the deck by this time and I was pleased to see that Watson had managed the feat without my help, though he was somewhat slower than usual.

He was still thin and rather sallow from his ordeal but rest and food, not to mention fresh air and water, had returned a measure of his strength.

The storm had abated a two nights ago and the sun was shining as brightly as though nothing had ever occurred.

"What will you do now?" I asked the midshipman as we made our way toward the ramp where other passengers were leaving the ship.

Lachlan looked out at the unfamiliar port and the harsh surrounding land of the African coast.

"To be quite honest, I am getting rather tired of being solely a seaman. I have sailed past a great many countries that I have been wantin' to see for some time. When I brought this case to your attention I wasn't certain what I was to do."

He smiled, his blue eyes twinkling.

"I'm thinkin' I might go and see a few of those places. Perhaps I'll find somethin' else of interest to do."

"Just like that?" I said with a slight laugh.

"I don't see why not…you did." Watson said with a smile.

"Yes, but I was being lent money from Mycroft….one has to live."

"And there are ways of earning a living," Lachlan said. "Especially if you plan on seein' these places to the fullest."

The midshipman tore his eyes away from the strange coast.

"And what about you gents?"

"Back to Baker Street," I said, "I can keep a closer eye on Watson there. He describes me as a terrible patient but he is in reality far worse."

Watson shot a glare at me, though the corners of his mouth twitched.

"I'll give it three days, Holmes…three days of monotony and then you won't be able to stand it. You shall drag me off on some other case that is just as likely to get us killed."

Lachlan chuckled, "I hope not, seein' as I won't be around to keep an eye on you gents."

Watson gave the seaman one of his warmest and most genuine smiles.

"I must say, Lachlan, I'll feel rather vulnerable without you to watch our backs."

Lachlan returned the smile and grasped Watson's hand.

"Don't worry about it, Doctor, that's your place at Mr. Holmes's back, and you know how to fill it better than anyone else. It has been a pleasure knowin' and workin' with an honorable man such as yourself, and a greater-hearted cove I've yet to meet."

My dear Watson flushed at the compliment.

"I could say the same, Lachlan."

The midshipman turned to me.

"You watch out for both of ye, Mr. Holmes – the world isn't ready to do without you two."

"And yourself, Midshipman," I returned, grasping the calloused hand. "You are an invaluable companion. I owe you my thanks…" I glanced at Watson who flushed again, "…for a great many things."

His blue eyes twinkled "T'was no trouble."

"We will see you at Baker Street sometime?" Watson insisted.

Lachlan nodded. "Aye, you will."

The crowd began to move at this point and we descended the ramp to the bustling street. One of the stewards hailed a cab for us and I began to hand our luggage up to the driver, Lachlan handed the rest of our bags over to me and swung his own more firmly over his shoulder.

Then he turned to face us, and though the world continued to move around us I felt an odd moment of stillness settle over our small group. As though this was an instant to be marked and remembered.

A point of departure.

"You won't come to the hotel with us?" Watson asked, though his sober face revealed he already knew the answer.

Lachlan shook his head, his smile a little sad now.

"I have a feelin' I've got my own story to live, Doctor."

Watson nodded knowingly.

"Don't forget to write it down."

"I'll keep you informed."

He clasped both our hands warmly.

"Goodbye," Watson said regretfully.

"Good luck…and remember what I said."

I smiled. "Vows made in storms."

The midshipman looked at me, startled, his blond brows furrowed. Then his weathered face broke once again into a smile.

"Aye."

And then William Lachlan, former Midshipman, touched his hand to his hat in a gesture of respect reserved for superiour officers and captains. His blue eyes twinkled as he met our gazes one last time, and then he turned and disappeared into the crowd.

_**Watson**_

_"From every kind of man  
Obedience I expect;  
I'm the Emperor of Japan —"_

"I shall not tell you again, Watson! Why the deuce did I ever agree to this?"

"It is entirely your own fault!"

"_My_ fault!"

I grinned at Sherlock Holmes's exasperated face as we exited the theatre into our waiting cab.

"Yes, your fault," I replied as he rapped on the roof with his stick and the cab clopped slowly away.

"How so?" he demanded.

I turned to face him in the cab and let my eyes twinkle.

"You shouldn't have promised me you would take me."

"When did I do that?" he spluttered.

"One of those nights I had a fever on board the _Friesland_, Holmes – I distinctly remember your telling me if I would 'just hang on, old chap', you would take me to see any operetta I wanted to," I told him smugly, settling back in the cab.

I heard an embarrassed growl.

"Yes, well..."

"Sooo, next time I want to see –"

"Don't push me, Watson!"

I snickered at the desperation in his tone.

"I do have to admit I was less than thrilled with the _Mikado_," I admitted.

Holmes snorted.

"Even your romantic tastes were sickened at the names 'Yum-Yum', 'Pooh-Bah', and 'Pish-Tush'? Really, Watson, I would have thought your sentiments would have been in paradise!"

Now it was my turn to growl.

"Why the devil did you have to pick _that_ nauseating atrocity!" he moaned, slumping down in his seat.

"Well how was I to know it was going to be less than stunning?"

Holmes growled something unintelligible and we sat in silence for several minutes, watching the scenery of our London go by around us. Finally he broke the silence a trifle hesitantly.

"Watson?"

"Mmhm?"

"Did you _really_ remember my saying that?"

I glanced over at him.

"Yes. Though I am a trifle puzzled as to how that came up in conversation that night," I replied with a grin.

Holmes snickered in a very undignified fashion and leant back with a wicked smirk.

"That particular night you were singing at the top of your voice, Watson, _'Pour, O pour the pirate sherry,'_ and so on – really, I had no idea you had such a good memory for romantic comic operetta songs. "

I felt my face flush bright red.

"You're not serious," I said in dismay, hoping it were true.

"Oh, very serious. I heard three renditions of that particular song, two choruses of _'A policeman's lot is not a happy one',_ and a full-bodied verse of –"

"I am sorry I asked," I said hastily, feeling the blush deepen.

"Yes, well, I am sorry I promised to take you to see yet another one," he muttered, leaning out of the cab to stare rather rudely at some passerby.

"What are you staring at?"

"I am not staring, I am observing, Watson. And do not think you can change the subject so easily."

"I wasn't trying to change the subject!"

"Mmhm."

"I wasn't!"

"As you wish, Watson."

"You are so infuriating sometimes!"

"I know," he replied mischievously, glancing at me with a self-satisfied smirk.

I held the glance with an icy glare, trying not to laugh as he raised his eyebrows at me. I was rather unsuccessful, and we both started to snicker and then laugh outright as we turned onto Baker Street.

We had arrived back in London only two days ago, after a arduous return trip from the African port where we had gotten off the _Friesland_, and in the amount of time it had taken to get back I had made a complete recovery, much to both our relief. Now the only reminder of our horrific journey on the steamer was our memories, nothing more tangible.

Holmes hopped out of the cab as it pulled up in front of 221b and began to unlock our front door.

"Pay the driver, there's a good chap," he called impishly over his shoulder.

"Holmes!"

"Look, I bought the tickets to that infernal performance – you pay the cab!" he said pointedly, opening the door.

I shook my head and paid the cabbie, following him inside with a grin. We hung our hats and coats in the hall, and as we were ascending the stair Mrs. Hudson came bustling out from the back.

"Letter arrived for you gentlemen while you were out," she said, passing it up to me. I handed it to Holmes and wished her good night as we continued up the steps.

"Well, who is it from, Holmes?"

"I haven't opened it yet, Watson!"

"Well you still should be able to deduce _something_ from the outside!"

"You are ridiculous," he snorted, throwing open the sitting room door.

"Drink?"

"Yes, thank you."

I walked over to the sideboard and poured two glasses as Holmes ripped open the envelope and scanned the contents.

"It's a wire and a newspaper clipping from our Midshipman," he said at last, glancing up as I handed him one of the glasses and settled down in my armchair.

Holmes threw himself into his own chair opposite me and read the wire aloud.

TRUST YOU ARE WELL STOP HOPE THE DOCTOR IS BACK ON HIS FEET STOP LOOK FORWARD TO NEXT INSTALMENT IN THE STRAND STOP

DO KEEP YOURSELVES IN ONE PIECE STOP CANNOT BE THERE TO KEEP YOU OUT OF TROUBLE STOP HAVE DISCOVERED MATTER OF INTEREST HERE IN BOMBAY THAT MAY ENGAGE MY ENERGIES FOR SOME TIME STOP

WILL KEEP YOU INFORMED STOP

YOU MAY ENJOY ENCLOSED ARTICLE STOP AM BEING HOUNDED BY REPORTER STOP HAVE YOU ANY ADVICE STOP

REGARDS

LACHLAN

Holmes broke unto a loud guffaw at the tone of the message, glanced over the article and tossed both over to me. I read it and joined him with a chuckle.

"Well, it sounds as if he is going to keep himself busy, and I certainly am glad to hear it," I said with a smile.

"As am I. We owe him a good deal, Watson – he deserves better than a low seaman's berth for the rest of his life," Holmes replied.

"Indeed," I agreed, sipping my port thoughtfully..

"A remarkable man, that Lachlan. He is destined to go far – mark my words, Watson, we shall be hearing more of him someday."

"I don't doubt it. The man would make an incredible writer; I should not be surprised if he took it up as a hobby," I said.

Holmes snorted.

"That is all the English-speaking world needs. _Two_ ridiculous purveyors of romantic fiction."

I merely grinned at him.

"By the by, what are you going to call this little adventure of ours?"

"Hmm."

"The Adventure of the Dutch Steamship _Friesland_?"

I shook my head.

"Too long. Not evocative enough, either."

"What then?"

I took another drink, and my mind reverted back to our sailor friend.

"I believe I shall call it _'Vows Made in Storms'_, Holmes," I said slowly, glancing at him for approval.

"For once, Watson, I am inclined to agree with your choice," he returned thoughtfully, "what was that expression you both used so often?"

"Lachlan came up with it, actually, not I. _Vows made in storms are not forgotten in port_," I replied.

A small smile played round the corners of my friend's mouth, and I could see his quick mind revolving the saying and all its potential.

Truly, were it not for storms such as we had been through we would not have these quiet companionable evenings afterwards. I had seen an entirely new side of Sherlock Holmes in this case, a very welcome side, and I counted it well worth the suffering to have been allowed to see under his cold, proud nature in such a manner. We had weathered the worst storm yet, and Holmes had brought us safely into port.

We both remained silent and pensive for a moment, thinking deeply.

Then Holmes held his glass out towards me.

"To the storms, then?"

I returned his smile with one of my own, touching the rim of his glass with mine.

"The storms."

_**Finis.**_

-Excerpt from an article in the _Daily Yell_, June 1894-

…_Present at the incident was a Mr. William Lachlan of England, who, though he has no official affiliation with the magistrate or the officials of the Bombay area, was a great help in clearing up many of the difficulties at hand. _

_In particular was his personal encounter and struggle with the villain behind the murders and the original theft. Though sustaining minor injuries, including a newly damaged right hand, Mr. Lachlan was able to restrain and hold the culprit until the arrival of the police. _

_Mr. Lachlan has declined to give a personal interview despite the dogged requests and pursuits of our reporter Mr. Haight. _

_Mr. Haight is at this moment working on rediscovering the location of this elusive man and gaining more information on the Steamship _Friesland_ affair, during which it is rumored Mr. Lachlan worked with the well-known detective Sherlock Holmes and his associate Dr. John Watson… _


End file.
